


If I had a boat I would sail to you

by Sunnyrea



Category: Sherlock (TV), Titanic (1997)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 21:40:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John is completely different and special from anyone Sherlock would normally come in contact with - no talk of money and hidden family secrets, no surface, superfluous conversations and blatant lies. John was the most honest person in less than five minutes Sherlock has ever met. He wants to know everything else there is to know about John Watson.</i>
</p><p>(Sherlock/Titanic fusion - the entire thing!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I had a boat I would sail to you

**Author's Note:**

> (Title is from a James Vincet McMorrow song)

Sherlock Holmes steps out of the car at the dock where the world’s largest ship, the RMS Titanic, awaits him for her maiden voyage. Sherlock tugs down the edges of his black suit coat then holds out his arm – all proper to decorum – to assist his fiancée, Ms. Molly Hooper, from the car. Molly steps out of the car, hand on his arm but with her eyes toward the ground. Though they are engaged to be married, Molly barely manages speech in his presence, always fumbling over her words, speaking only of trivial things women seem to focus on which hold absolutely no interest for Sherlock. Sherlock recalls about ten sentences in total they have spoken to each other which included any form of real substance.

Molly gasps when she looks up at the ship. “It’s so large.”

“Unsinkable,” Mycroft says, coming up behind them from the second car. “A perfect ship that ever was made.”

“With no doubt a horrific turning radius,” Sherlock counters.

“I would think at nineteen years you should be able to appreciate craftsmanship, Sherlock.” Mycroft grumbles. “It is a passenger liner not a battleship.”

“It still must turn.”

“Sir, the bags?” Anthea, Mycroft’s manservant who perfectly fits the role in every aspect but her sex, appears out of nowhere holding her notebook – bun on top of her head, masculine clothing, paisley tie, full Windsor knot.

“Yes, of course.” Mycroft points with his ivory topped umbrella at the car behind them. “Just see them all safely on board, special care with the safe, of course.”

“Yes, sir.” Anthea writes in her notebook and whistles loudly at a passing crewman. “All these trunks to the ship, first class.”

“Are we to…” Molly rubs nonexistent wrinkles out of her pale blue skirt with her gloved hands. “I mean, do we plan to… dine together tonight?” She peeks up at him from under her matching hat, simple but becoming with a floppy navy blue bow at the back.

Sherlock frowns and pulls down the brim of his hat. “No doubt we will have to suffer that.”

“Come along.” Mycroft puts a hand against Sherlock’s back and pushes him forward. “Titanic and America await.”

Sherlock’s frown turns to a grimace.

\-------

In their three adjoining suites, Anthea leads the charge of trunks and boxes carried by half a dozen crew members to their proper locations. As soon as Sherlock walks in behind the first of the parade, he unbuttons his jacket and throws it onto a chair by the door, followed soon by his hat which misses and rolls under a sideboard.

“Really, Sherlock,” Mycroft chides, picking up the hat and throwing it back toward Sherlock.

Sherlock dodges and lets the hat bounce off the wall. Mycroft sighs then sits on one of the pair of couches in their sitting room to peruse a stack of bills from the House of Lords - ever the civil servant. Sherlock loosens his tie then slouches against one wall watching the mechanics of class in motion. He sees his violin case come into the room on top of one of Molly’s trunks and stands up straight. Sherlock weaves around one carried trunk and plucks his case off before the men carrying the trunk even have a chance to put it on the floor.

“No Rachmaninoff,” Mycroft says without looking up from his papers. “You know I hate that modern music.”

“I should not be held at fault for your severe lack of taste, Mycroft.”

“Then play nothing,” Mycroft grumbles and turns a page.

Sherlock puts the case on the chair where his coat landed, flips open the clasps and carefully pulls out his violin. He slashes the bow across the strings once loudly just to see Mycroft cringe. Mycroft glares up over the edge of his papers. Sherlock smiles then puts the violin on his shoulder, considering what piece would annoy Mycroft the most.

“Why don’t we go on deck to watch the boat depart?” Molly asks quietly.

“There will be nothing to see but crowds,” Sherlock says as he plays a slow chromatic scale.

“But... well, it would be a thrill, would it not?” Molly clasps her hands together over her waist. “Just to be a part of it?”

“Part of a massive crush of people just to wave at strangers as we pull from the dock at a snail’s pace? Idiotic.” Sherlock screeches his bow across the violin stings. “But, by all means Molly, join the sheep.”

“Sherlock...” Mycroft growls.

“Well...” Molly looks at Sherlock, looks away, then back again. “I think it could... well, it could be... pleasant.”

Sherlock frowns then turns away and beings playing ‘God Save the Queen.’ Mycroft sighs loudly and slaps his stack of papers down on the table. Sherlock sees Mycroft glaring out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock only turns away and plays the tune more legato.

“I shall accompany you, my dear.” Sherlock hears Mycroft stand up behind him. “Sherlock, do try to be dressed respectfully by dinner.”

Sherlock vamps the last note he is on until he hears the door close. Sherlock turns around to see only Anthea left in the room. She stares at him for a long moment then turns on her heel and follows Mycroft and Molly out. When the door closes a second time Sherlock puts bow to strings and beings to play Mozart’s Requiem.

\--------

After Cherbourg, France, Sherlock finds himself stuck with yet another socialite by the name of Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft calls her ‘new money’ behind her back and then invites her to their lunch with the ship’s designer, Ms. Irene Adler, and the White Star Line chairman, Mr. James Moriarty. Clearly all Mycroft sees in Mrs. Hudson is an untapped resource in America he can possibly use. Sherlock wishes he was a woman who could feign a head ache and escape the tedium.

“The most brilliant design of a ship I had ever seen,” James says as he sips his glass of wine. “I could scarce believe it came from a woman. Ms. Adler has a mind meant for a man!”

Irene smirks. “I only aspire to design them better and better.” If she finds any offense in Mr. Moriarty’s backward compliment it does not show. 

“Even better than the Olympic?” Mrs. Hudson asks.

Irene smiles and winks. “Always room for improvement.”

“Yes, now you’ve designed one to be unsinkable,” Mycroft says.

“Nothing is unsinkable,” Sherlock says. “It’s not made of water but iron.”

Mycroft kicks Sherlock under the table. Sherlock glares and pulls out his cigarette case.

“I think the ship is beautiful, Ms. Adler,” Molly says. “It is almost magical.”

“Thank you very much, Ms. Hooper.” Irene smiles and taps her hand on the table. “I have built you a large and fast ship to ferry your beautiful self across the ocean.”

Molly blushes up to the roots of her hair.

“Turning radius,” Sherlock mutters and puts a cigarette between his lips while searching his pockets for his lighter.

Mycroft frowns. “Must you?”

Sherlock scowls back. “Would you rather it be something else?” He flicks his lighter and ignites the end of his cigarette.

Mycroft’s hand clenches into a fist on the table. Before Mycroft can start a speech, the waiter steps up to the table for their order.

“Lamb,” Mycroft says, “Ms. Hooper?”

“Just the soup...” She smiles quickly at the waiter then turns to Sherlock beside her. “What will you have, Sherlock?”

“Nothing.”

Mycroft taps the table with his menu. “Sherlock...”

“If I wished to eat, Mycroft, I would order.” Sherlock flicks ash off the end of his cigarette then takes another drag.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stubs out his cigarette sharply in the ash tray in front of him. He picks up the menu then turns to the waiter. “Coffee.” He snaps it closed and hands it to the man.

Across the table, Mycroft blinks twice and smiles with no humor.

“I’ll have a coffee as well,” Molly says and smiles at Sherlock - attempt at solidarity?

Sherlock fingers the cigarette case in his pocket, wishing it was something else, and forces out a smile for Molly.

“The name Titanic!” Mrs. Hudson suddenly blurts out pulling everyone back to the previous conversation. “Who came up with ‘Titanic?’” She drums her fingers on the table. “James? I’m betting it’s you.”

Mr. Moriarty smiles and fans his hands in front of him with exaggeration. “It’s perfect, isn’t it?” He grins and the phrases ‘possibly psychotic’ and ‘perfect for Mycroft’ come to mind. “We wanted the name to instantly convey sheer size which inspires stability and of course luxury. It is now the largest ship in the world. It should have a name equal to its greatness.” James holds up both pointer fingers as if the text lies between them in the air. “Titanic!”

Sherlock pulls another cigarette out of his case under the table, wishing he hadn’t stubbed out the other.

“Have you ever read Freud, Mr. Moriarty?” Mrs. Hudson quips.

Sherlock’s mouth spreads into a grin and suddenly he likes this woman. 

Mycroft chuckles. “Mrs. Hudson, you are quite a pleasure; we may have to find you an invitation to my brother’s coming wedding.”

Sherlock’s smile vanishes.

\--------

The noise of the main dining room that evening swirls around Sherlock growing louder and sharper every second - forks on china, the scratch of pushed chairs, tinkle of the chandelier with the steady movement of the ship, Mycroft’s false chuckles, Ms. Hooper’s barely audible appropriate responses; conversations about money, the food, the ocean, Duchess this, Duke whomever, money, color of dress, style of the season, wedding preparations, money. Below it all the steady hum of the ship echoes every single banal, useless, boring notion. Sherlock’s tuxedo collar chafes, his fingers tingle, Molly’s leg rests too close and his mind spins and spins and spins dying to be set free from this charade, all this empty idiocy and simplicity. 

When Sherlock stands from his chair Mycroft barely glances up but to hear Sherlock’s mumble of, “fresh air,” before talk of stocks resumes.

Out on deck Sherlock walks steadily aft - passes couples on a stroll, second class passengers sneaking to higher decks, a sixteen year old with his father’s flask, a post tryst pair - until he walks alone and reaches the very back of the ship. He stares down at the water churning from the propellers, the noise so much louder here like a signal. He can see every step ahead of him in those bubbles - marriage to Ms. Hooper with lace and white and staring straight ahead, work in the government because he is a Holmes, two children probably; his mind dissolving from stagnation until he dies of an opium overdose or forced out kisses and empty pleasantries or Mycroft’s incessant voice telling him which path to walk, to stop thinking so much, to be a second son and know his place, to use that mind for something proper not play at being Scotland Yard.

“So boring, dull... hateful,” Sherlock says quietly

Sherlock grasps the pole to his right and steps up onto the lowest rung, up, up, and onto the very top bar. If he leans forward enough, holding on to the pole, he cannot see the ship, only the churning water. Surely the water below could not be any less fake and monotonous than this life laid out before him?

“Don’t.”

Sherlock tenses and glances over his shoulder - a man, a few years older than himself, just barely average height, calloused hands, cheap but well-kept clothing, simple browns and whites, clearly third class; short, cropped haircut, good posture, obvious military history.

“Don’t do it,” he says, still a couple of meters away.

“Why not?” Sherlock asks.

The man frowns, surprised by his question. “Well, that water is below freezing for one and drowning is no sensible way to die.”

Sherlock purses his lips and nods once; the man isn’t wrong.

“It is simplest, however,” Sherlock counters.

The man frowns and shakes his head. “You know what hypothermia is like? What the force of that fall could do?”

Sherlock glances at the water then back to the man. “The height would not be enough to kill me, break some bones – most likely a leg depending upon the angle of impact.”

The man blinks. “Well… I, yes…”

“And hypothermia,” Sherlock smiles briefly, “the core body temperature drops below the required temperature for normal metabolism and body function; decreased heart rate, decreased respiratory rate, and psychological incoherency. Depending upon the temperature of this water it could occur within an hour.” Sherlock shrugs slightly. “Of course, it’s all hardly worth mentioning as the cold would mostly likely cause drowning before hypothermia could set in.”

Sherlock sees the man trying hard not to smile. Sherlock feels a tug at the edge of his own lips as they stare at each other.

The man clears his throat quietly then purses his lips. He watches Sherlock for a moment then starts to step slowly toward Sherlock. “Well then, Why not at least wait until we reach New York, probably a less painful way than drowning there?”

“That is still several days away; stop walking.”

The man freezes.

Sherlock cocks his head. “You may believe you are fast enough to grab my arm without me reacting in time, fast enough to grab me even if I should jump before you move but I weigh more than you and the force of my fall would most likely jerk my arm out of your hands so there is no point to attempt such a plan.”

The man blinks rapidly. “How did you know I would -”

“I observe.”

“Why are you going to jump?” He asks and Sherlock sees he genuinely wants to know.

Sherlock looks back at the water. “I’m bored.” Sherlock sighs heavily. “Bored of everything in this ridiculous life.”

“Would it be less boring if I jumped too?”

Sherlock’s head snaps around, the man nearly right beside him now. “What?”

“Well, if you jump I’m going too.” He nods toward the water. “You see I was in the army-”

“I know.”

He blinks. “You do?”

“Obvious.”

He smiles softly up at Sherlock then bends and begins untying his shoes. “Well, I trained as a medical assistant. I assume you know the medical credo of ‘do no harm.’”

Sherlock frowns. “What harm would you be doing other than to yourself?”

He stands up straight and steps out of his shoes. “It would be a harm to let you jump without trying to save you.”

Sherlock smiles slowly. “You are rather interesting, Mr...”

“John Watson, sir.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Not a doctor?”

Sherlock snorts. “Never.”

“But you can see the point in the profession’s idea?”

Sherlock watches the man’s face, looking for a trap or a lie but his face is simply honest. It almost seems unreal. Sherlock tilts his head then barely nods. John nods just as fractionally in reply.

“So.” John glances at the open sea behind the ship then back up at Sherlock standing on the top rung. “Will you spare us both some harm and a very cold swim, then?” He holds out his hand up toward Sherlock.

Sherlock stares for a long moment then crouches to take John’s hand. He lets go of the pole and turns his feet to jump back onto the deck. Then he slips.

Sherlock’s ankle twists and he falls back over the edge, his chin smashing on the bar with a crack. Sherlock yells in pain as he falls but John grips Sherlock’s hand tightly with both of his.

“I’ve got you!” John shouts. “It’s all right!”

Sherlock squeezes John’s hands as hard as possible, focusing on the feeling of those calloused hands so the dizziness in his head will not take over. John pulls but Sherlock sees him straining with Sherlock’s weight.

“I’m too heavy,” Sherlock groans, and he can taste blood.

“No, you’re not. You just have to help me!”

Sherlock tries to pull himself up holding on with both hands as John works to haul him back but they miscalculate the timing and John’s feet slide, knocking him into the bars. Sherlock falls back against the ship shouting once as his one arm twists painfully. John does not lose his grip.

“Oh...” Sherlock hisses through the pain, “we can’t... I -”

“No!” John insists. “Look at me, Sherlock, alright?”

Sherlock stares up at John, at his earnest blue eyes more alive and interesting than anything Sherlock has ever seen before in his wooden box of a life. Sherlock wants to live.

“One, two, three!” John shouts.

John pulls Sherlock with all of his weight and Sherlock pushes his feet against the boat. They drag upward slowly then Sherlock reaches the lowest rung at the deck edge, pulling a hand free of John’s to grab the bar. Sherlock pushes up on the rung with his hand and the two of them finally hoist Sherlock back over the railing onto the deck. Sherlock falls to his knees off the weight of his twisted ankle as soon as his feet land. He breathes slowly to calm his speeding heart and spits blood from where he bit his tongue when he hit his chin.

“Oy! You!” A deck hand suddenly appears with another crewman behind him, shouting at John standing above Sherlock. “Did you strike this man? What are you doing up here?”

Sherlock sees John back away a step with his hands up in submission but John says nothing in his defense.

“What is going on?” Mycroft suddenly appears with Anthea just behind him – no doubt previously stalking the decks to find him until now.

“Get him up,” Mycroft says to Anthea, indicating Sherlock. Then he turns to John. “How dare you assault my brother! Did you think to get money?”

“Mycroft...” Sherlock says as Anthea helps him up.

“I will see you are -”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock snaps, shrugging off Anthea’s hand.

Mycroft and the crewmen turn to look at him as does John.

“He did not hurt me.”

Mycroft blinks. “What?”

“I was too close to the edge.” Sherlock points to the railing. “I slipped, hit my chin on the rail and would have fallen over but...” Sherlock glances at John who holds his gaze with a quirk of his lips. “But Mr. Watson here saved me.”

“Saved...” Mycroft gasps out with confusion.

John looks away but his flicker of a smile is unmistakable.

“He saved me,” Sherlock repeats mouth spreading into a grin.

“Well…” Sherlock turns to Mycroft as he speaks and Sherlock does not like the look on Mycroft’s face. “We are most… grateful.”

John nods then looks at the two deck hands still flanking him like they want haul him off to the brig or somewhere equally jail-like. He clears his throat then raises his eyebrows at the two of them until they back off.

“Shall we return to dinner then?” Mycroft says to Sherlock, completely ignoring all his ‘lessers.’

“Mycroft.” Sherlock frowns.

They stare at each other for a moment. Then Mycroft frowns as well and sighs. He turns to John and waves a hand in the air. “Join us for dinner tomorrow evening, as a thank you for your service to my brother.”

Sherlock barely holds back a derisive snort at Mycroft turning a ‘thank you’ into an order.

“All right then,” John replies quietly, glancing at Sherlock again.

Mycroft pivots and heads back toward the dining rooms, the crewmen trailing behind like they belong to him. Sherlock smiles at John. He wants to say something, something that would make John understand what really just happened because this was…

“Sherlock!” Mycroft snaps.

“Good night,” Sherlock says instead and he turns away.

As he walks, hands in his pockets, he hears Anthea say, “Be sure to tie your shoes; wouldn’t want to _slip_ anywhere.”

\--------

Sherlock and Mycroft sit in the lounge of their suite, Molly long since retired to bed. Ash barely clings to the end of Sherlock’s cigarette, nearly burnt down to Sherlock’s fingers, completely forgotten. Sherlock thinks of nothing now but John Watson.

Mr. Watson had no reason to save him; no promise of reward, easily ignored - pretend he did not see or understand. Yet, Mr. Watson - John - had intervened, saved him, said “don’t.” 

Sherlock knows pieces of this man just from what he saw - army man but yet to see any wars, a hard worker, no class bitterness, just a regular, honest man; something never seen in the upper classes. John is completely different and special from anyone Sherlock would normally come in contact with - no talk of money and hidden family secrets, no surface, superfluous conversations and blatant lies. John was the most honest person in less than five minutes Sherlock has ever met. He wants to know everything else there is to know about John Watson.

“He’s nothing special, Sherlock.”

Sherlock drops the remains of his cigarette and focuses on Mycroft sitting on the couch across from him. “What?”

“You have a future ahead of you, Sherlock, a fiancée and a fortune to obtain when we reach America.”

“Because dear Molly was the only relative left when these American cousins died? Quite courteous of us to take care of it.”

Mycroft drops his glass of scotch onto the table with a clatter. “Your sarcasm does nothing for you, Sherlock, and don’t pretend that I have no idea what passes through your head.”

“You have no idea what happens outside of your cigar circles and House sessions.”

“Just because this man saved your life does not mean you need to figure him out. He’s not one of your little detective projects.”

Sherlock feels a tingle in his fingers. “I have a set of skills, Mycroft, I observe and I can solve -”

“No.” Mycroft picks up his glass again and stands up from his couch. “A career in the police as a detective...” 

“Consulting detective, private, obviously.”

Mycroft frowns and shakes his head. “As a detective, that is a path for the lower classes to step up a fraction, not for the better classes to step down to.”

“That is hardly accurate and -”

“Your place lies in the government, with me, and married to Ms. Hooper, Sherlock. You must give up this Scotland Yard nonsense.”

Sherlock pulls the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one, taking a drag, then blowing the smoke up toward Mycroft. “Money?”

“Everything in life is about money, Sherlock, you know that.”

Sherlock only inhales more smoke from his cigarette and thinks of John’s amused smile.

\--------

The next day Sherlock ventures down to the third class deck to find John. He receives a number of stares due to his good gray suit and obviously shined shoes but when he taps John on the shoulder everyone else turns away - first class, could be trouble, don’t get involved.

John blinks in surprise then stands up, snapping the notebook in his hands closed. “Mr. Holmes.”

“Mr. Watson.” Sherlock taps his fingers together – well-worn notebook, ink on his third finger – a writer; slight creases around the eyes, easy smile, five people around them surreptitiously listening to their dialog who are personally acquainted with John. “I thought it might be good to have a conversation before you are thrown to the lions at dinner tonight.”

“Oh?” John frowns. “Will they tear me apart?”

“Probably.” Sherlock steps back and holds his arm out toward the stairs. “Would you care to join me?”

“Up on first class in broad day light?” John asks with surprise.

“Well, you’ll be with me.”

“All right.”

They walk back up the stairs until they reach the top deck, no crewmen stopping them or questioning Sherlock at all. Up on deck they walk side by side, John managing to keep up with Sherlock’s long strides.

“John,” why continue with formalities after a shared brush with death, “I was not able last night to properly thank you for what you did, insane though it may have been.”

John chuckles. “Interesting sort of ‘thank you.’”

Sherlock’s lip quirks. “Thank you.” He stops at the rail facing the ocean. “Also for conforming to my version of events.”

“You mean lying?”

Sherlock turns around again and smirks. “You did not lie, you simply did not contradict me.”

“So, I concealed the truth?”

“Well, you were not actually asked, were you?”

John shrugs. “Why would they?”

Sherlock adds ‘dark humor’ to his mental list of John’s personality traits.

“I imagine for a man of your position it must be difficult to consider what my reasons could have been, regardless of my answer when you asked last night.” Sherlock walks slowly across the deck and sits on an available chair, leaving John standing above him. “After all, what should the rich be upset about?”

“Why would I think that?” John sits down beside Sherlock on another deck chair. “You’re still people.”

Sherlock smirks. “Sometimes.”

“You said you were bored,” John shifts the notebook he carries to his lap and lays his hands on top. “What did you mean?”

Sherlock chuckles. “Nearly everyone in the world is an idiot and when you are not it is difficult to maintain sanity.” 

John laughs and shakes his head. “Some people are idiots, of course, but not everyone.”

Sherlock glances John up and down once. “I can see that you are going to America to help your sister who has a problem with alcohol, both parents dead so that task falls to you. You’ve never seen combat in the sense of war but you still received an injury due to your time in the army, most likely from being stationed in Ireland or India.”

“How could you -”

“Traveling alone since the ticket in your pocket is issued for one, so likely no parents; The letter in your notebook, clearly worn edges, so reread a number of times implying worry or concern; old stain smelling faintly of rum on the envelope but as there are no similar stains on your person most likely from the writer not the receiver; handwriting obviously feminine and name Watson on the back of the envelope, so sister most likely if you’re willing to travel across the ocean for her.”

John blinks. “Yes, Harriett.”

Sherlock nods. “Your leg, a slight limp, mostly unnoticeable but when you stand still for longer than a minute you begin to favor your right side; something you’re not completely used to so not from birth but obviously the result of a wound.” Sherlock folds his hands together. “So? Ireland or India?”

“India.”

Sherlock frowns. “You’re hardly tan.”

“It was a year ago.” Sherlock only makes a ‘hmm’ noise. John smiles slowly. “Is that all?”

Sherlock glances behind John. “The woman three seats away from us just realized this morning she is pregnant; the man who walked past us a minute ago has a heart condition; and the ship has increased speed though it is entirely unnecessary to do so for us to reach New York on the expected day.”

“Amazing!” John gasps with appreciation. “Just amazing! With a mind like that of course everyone else must seem idiotic and boring.”

“Not you,” Sherlock says quietly. 

“Me?” John blinks with surprise.

Sherlock leans forward over his legs into John’s personal space. “Why save me? Why put yourself into such a situation where you could possibly be accused of whatever should have happened to me? Surely not just a fondness for the Hippocratic oath. Why care about someone you do not know?”

“Why not care?”

Sherlock grumbles. “That is not an answer.”

“Sherlock, why do I need a reason to care?”

“Because everything has a reason!”

John grins. “I suppose I just did not want to see you fall.”

Sherlock stares at John and for four seconds Sherlock believes John would really have jumped off the boat after him.

Sherlock leans back in his chair, John watching him closely, and then Sherlock glances down at John’s notebook. “You’re a writer.”

John blinks then his fingers clench on his notebook like he needs to remind himself it’s there. “Ah, well, sort of.”

Sherlock raises both eyebrows. “’Sort of’ as in not the published sort?”

John chuckles. “Mostly no. I write about where I’ve been, good deal about India, about the army. Some people seem to think I write a good sort of prose.”

Sherlock purses his lips and sits up again. “May I see some?”

“Sherlock!” a woman’s voice suddenly calls from less than two meters behind Sherlock before John can respond.

Sherlock groans quietly and rolls his eyes. “Did I mention I’m engaged to be married?”

John’s eyes shift to gaze behind Sherlock. “No.”

“I am.”

“Oh.” He’s eyes tick back to Sherlock. “Your... brother’s idea?”

“Of course.”

“Do you love her?”

“No.”

“Do you even like her?”

“Only vaguely.”

“Sherlock?” Molly’s hand touches Sherlock’s shoulder and he stands up abruptly, John following awkwardly a second after.

“Molly.”

Molly stands with Mrs. Hudson, both dressed in pale, afternoon colors. Molly smiles at Sherlock, glancing at John quickly then back to Sherlock. “I’ve come to... to find you for tea. Your brother said -”

“Oh, I am sure he did.” Sherlock indicates John with one hand. “Molly this is John Watson, the man who saved my life last night.”

“Oh God!” Molly squeaks then blushes with embarrassment. “I mean, I’m pleased to meet you.”

“John, this is my fiancée, Molly Hooper.”

John nods. “Pleasure.”

“John will be joining us for dinner this evening.”

Mrs. Hudson laughs once. “Well, good luck dear.”

Molly blinks at the men. “Well... I...”

“Tea then?” Sherlock interrupts.

“Uh, yes, yes, tea; a late tea, yes.”

Sherlock pivots so he faces John and blocks him from the women. “I will see you in a few hours then, Mr. Watson.”

“John,” John corrects.

Sherlock smiles. “John.”

John nods. “Enjoy your tea.”

\--------

Sherlock sees John standing beside Mrs. Hudson at the bottom of the grand staircase that evening. He wears a tuxedo one size too large though hardly noticeable, probably borrowed from Mrs. Hudson from the way she seems to be maternally fixed to his side. He stands stiffly, almost at military attention except for his hands clasped behind his back. Apart from the slightly off fit of the tuxedo - dirty blond hair parted to the side, small smile on his lips - he looks perfect.

As Sherlock walks down the stairs John happens to glance up and see him. Sherlock watches John breathe in slowly and his hands grip together more tightly.

“Good evening,” Sherlock says as he steps up to the pair, John’s eyes fixed on his.

Mrs. Hudson smiles. “Come to pick him up? I made sure he looked the part.”

“Thank you for your assistance, Mrs. Hudson.”

John chuckles. “First class enough, now?”

Sherlock smiles. “Better.”

John holds out his left arm which Mrs. Hudson takes while Sherlock walks beside him on his right. They walk into the dining room and weave through clusters of fellow passengers, some shooting curious glances at John. They avoid conversation as much as possible - one socialite trying to flirt with John obviously hoping to put her card down on an untapped new money prospect - until Mycroft appears with Molly on his arm. 

“Good evening Mrs. Hudson.” He smiles stiffly at John. “And Mr. Watson, good of you to join us.” Molly smiles but says nothing. “And Sherlock,” Mycroft continues, “interesting that I should be the one to escort your fiancée to dinner instead of yourself.”

“It’s fine... I’m fine,” Molly mollifies.

Sherlock only raises an eyebrow.

“Shall we sit then?” Mrs. Hudson says. “Mr. Watson here needs to learn all the joys of the excessive first class dinner, am I right?”

Dinner passes about on par with the level of annoyance, pretense, and tedium Sherlock expected. Mycroft is sure to mention John’s ticket class.

“How are the accommodations in steerage, Mr. Watson?”

John only smiles. “Hardly any rats, better than the army.”

“I suppose we’d need a navy man to compare,” Ms. Adler quips with a smile on her lips.

Conversation fluctuates between the splendor of the ship, the recent stock market rises, an amusing story about Mrs. Hudson’s deceased Husband from Florida, and, of course, the wedding.

“This is an awful lot of forks,” John whispers to Sherlock. “Problem with using the same one over again?”

“The amount of forks is equal to the level of wealth, one for each money bag.”

John snorts quietly and tries not to laugh. “Is it the same with the plates?”

“Oh no, those are stocks hence the need for the gold inlay.”

John snorts again and has to bite his lip to stay quiet. Mrs. Hudson flashes a look at them and wiggles her eyebrows once with a smirk. Sherlock smiles at her look and feels John’s leg brush against his beneath the table.

“Are you married, Mr. Watson?” Mycroft suddenly asks causing both Sherlock and John to stiffen to attention.

John shakes his head. “I am not.”

“And why is that?” Everyone at the large table watches John now.

“Well, I was in the army for four years, served in India for most of it. Was not very good for matrimony.”

Mycroft tilts his head, taking a sip of wine. “But you’re no longer in the army.”

“I was wounded a year ago and honorably discharged.” John smiles, wide and bright and the sort of face anyone would trust. “I learned how close death can be, how quickly it can come. So I’d decided not to waste my life since then, to only concern myself with what matters.”

Sherlock smiles and has the sudden urge to grip John’s hand.

“Life is indeed a gift,” someone down the table says.

“How about a toast,” Mrs. Hudson says. “To life and making it matter.”

Everyone raises their glasses and toasts the air with mutters of ‘here, here’ and ‘to life.’ 

Sherlock taps his glass against John’s quietly. “To army medics who travel aft on ships.”

John chuckles. “To men who slip off them.”

Then Mycroft stands up, all the men rising with him, John two seconds late. “Ladies, we shall leave you now. Thank you for the pleasure of your company.”

John’s brow furrows. 

“Brandy and cigars,” Sherlock supplies.

The men begin to find their way out, all heading toward the first class smoking room. Mycroft claps a hand on John’s back with a ‘thank you for coming’ in clear dismissal for the evening. Sherlock lags behind - feigning a remark to Mrs. Hudson - until Mycroft exits. Sherlock says good night to Molly to buy some time until the other men mostly file out then he shifts and walks briskley the other way.

Sherlock catches John by the arm when he’s half way down the stairs on his way out. He whirls in surprise but starts to smile when he sees it is Sherlock.

“Hello.”

“Show me third class,” Sherlock says.

John blinks. “What?”

“Do you think I’d rather be here?” Sherlock grins.

\--------

Sherlock hears the music wafting up the stairs before they even open the last door into the third class dining hall, bouncy and lively, punctuated by sounds of conversation and cheer. Sherlock rips off his bow tie and stuffs it into a pocket as John opens the door, taking off his own tuxedo jacket. The music hits Sherlock square in the face, louder than he anticipated. For a moment the rush of so much sound and mash of different accents and the pungent smell of sweat and the unfamiliar surroundings threaten to crack Sherlock’s skull in half with an influx of information. Then John wraps a hand around Sherlock’s wrist to pull him forward and Sherlock’s focus snaps to just that one, small feeling.

“Come on then, Mr. Holmes.”

John drags Sherlock quickly forward through the mass of people – tables against the walls, clusters of chairs, raised dance floor in the middle, Irish jig playing, dark beer, ale, close to a hundred people.

“Here, drink.” John sticks a pint glass in Sherlock’s hand. “I think we’ve had enough wine for the night.”

John throws his coat over the back of a chair and slaps the back of the one man sitting there who only smiles back at him with a boisterous laugh. Sherlock gulps down a fourth of the glass then puts it back on the table. He gazes around the room again to see a group of half a dozen playing much used instruments to their left as well as at least three games of arm wrestling; a group of small children race among the legs of the adults chasing each other in a game with no sort of rules. A dozen women sit with their heads close together whispering then laughing full and loud one after the other, back and forth. Grit covers the floor, a few pools of spilled beer as well as old cigarette butts. Sherlock even spies a pair of rats in a far corner but no one among the revelers seems to care about the small bits of grime, obviously far less than most third class accommodations.

“This the one?” The lone man now sitting at the table beside them asks, pointing at Sherlock.

John laughs. “Just a meal ticket up to first class, Michael.”

Michael laughs and slaps Sherlock on the arm. “Care to slip off deck again so I can save you for a dinner?”

Sherlock only raises an eyebrow down at him. John elbows Sherlock in the side and Sherlock shakes his head. “Just once a trip.”

The man laughs harder and picks up his glass, swallowing the rest in one large gulp. Then he jumps up, nearly knocking over his chair and John in the process, to gallop onto the dance floor. 

John chuckles and leans closer to Sherlock. “I haven’t seen him sober yet this trip.”

Sherlock pulls the cigarette case out of his jacket pocket. “Wise decision.” 

Sherlock searches his pocket for his lighter but before he finds it John pulls a box of matches out of his own pocket. “Here.”

Sherlock lights his cigarette then hands the matches back to John. He takes two steps back and sits at the table. 

John turns around and looks down at him. “Too much for you?”

Sherlock smirks and holds his cigarette between his teeth. Sherlock shrugs out of his jacket, shouldering it on to the back of his chair. Then he unbuttons one cuff and rolls up the sleeve. Sucking in smoke, he pulls the cigarette from his lips and blows it out again grinning. “Come and see then.” He puts his right elbow up on the table and wiggles his fingers.

John’s face breaks into a smile and he sits down across from Sherlock, rolling up his sleeve. “Really think you can win, do you?”

“I know I can.”

“Analyzed the strength of my arm or friction on the table?”

“Maybe.”

John barks a laugh and grasps Sherlock’s hand. “All right then, come on.”

A young man suddenly appears beside them and John grins up at him, “Count us off, Davey.” 

The man clasps both his hands around theirs. “One, two, three!” He lets go.

They strain against each other, John just as strong as Sherlock expected but Sherlock is not some wholly pampered upper class home body. John laughs in surprise but does not give way when Sherlock instantly holds his own.

“Really think you can stand against an army man?” John quips.

“Do you really think all I do is read books or take tea?”

“Never.”

John tries to snap Sherlock’s wrist down with a sudden burst of strength but Sherlock sees the flicker of decision in his eye just before he moves and compensates accordingly, only giving a centimeter toward the table. A small crowd starts to form around them, bets passing over their heads mostly in favor of John. Sherlock squeezes John’s hand tighter and adds extra pressure, digging his elbow even more into the wood of the table.

“Just how much stamina do you have, John?” Sherlock asks. “Obviously a stressful night with the pressures of connecting to a completely foreign environment; you may not be physically tired from it but the mental stress is such to have weakened your lasting concentration.”

“Oh, now you’re just trying to distract me and show off your vocabulary.” John pushes harder, gaining more ground so Sherlock’s position is shifted into the weaker muscles of his forearm.

Sherlock shoves up suddenly, surprising John, and brings them back to center. “Do you have difficulty with multi-tasking, John?”

The crowd around them shouts in surprise and bets start to change above them, four more people appearing at the edges. “Come on!” “Finish him” Laughter grows and a splash of ale rains on the table over their hands.

“No problem at all, Sherlock,” John answers and suddenly pushes with strength previously hidden back – obvious change in the way he grips Sherlock’s hand, shift of the muscles – and the back of Sherlock’s hand hits the table top.

An equal chorus of cheers and groans erupt around them. Money passes hands and several men vie to challenge John to the next round. Someone slams a new pint glass in front of John and one hand gives Sherlock’s shoulder a conciliatory shake. However, Sherlock and John only stare at each other. They smile wide and their chuckles turn steadily into full chested laughter.

Finally John jumps out of his seat, taking a long drink out of his new pint glass. “Come on then.” Sherlock just stares at him until John grabs hold of Sherlock’s hand and pulls him to standing. “I said, come on. What do you think music is for?”

A chain of people circling the room, romping to the music snakes by them. John shifts his hold to Sherlock’s arm and pulls them into the throng. A woman latches on to Sherlock’s one side, John on the other and they spin around the room while the music changes to some sort of mix of a Scottish highland song and an Irish jig, oddly similar to each other. 

They prance around tables, knock over some chairs, and Sherlock cannot fathom whenever he smiled this much before. All the people are interesting – Polish, Irish, Arabian, histories he can read in their clothing and their open, solid faces. None of them hide behind paint or silk or stacks of old money which make them ‘good.’ They all have some story that connects to real life and Sherlock wants to figure out what brought every one of them to this ship, this place, this dream which to them means so much more than a crossing to gain a fortune in an arranged marriage. These people are real puzzles, no motivation solely based in money and status like everything else from his life.

“Sherlock!” John shouts and twists them out of the line of people moving so quickly now.

They twist around once in a circle, John’s arm still around Sherlock’s waist. Both nearly fall over from the change in momentum, dizzy from the spinning dance and the heat of the room. Then John plants his feet, back knocking into a pole and they smile at each other.

Compared to every other fresh face and puzzle in this room, John Watson standing in front of him, touching at more points than any decorum up in the ‘first class world’ would allow, is the most interesting person on all of Titanic.

“Better than upstairs, eh?” John gasps.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies and does not let go of John’s arm.

\--------

Sunday morning Sherlock, Mycroft, and Molly take breakfast together out on their private promenade deck. Molly attempts a few bits of conversation, met only with monosyllables from the Holmes brothers so the meal turns to silence. After twenty minutes of small bites leading to nearly empty plates, Mycroft puts his cup of tea down in its saucer and turns to Molly.

“Molly, my dear, would you be so kind as to give Sherlock and I a few minutes alone.”

Sherlock pauses with his teacup in the air and stares at Mycroft. Molly looks back and forth between the two of them then picks her napkin up off her lap and stands. Mycroft stands as Molly leaves but Sherlock does not bother to follow decorum.

“I’ll just prepare for church service then,” she says at the door then turns and closes it behind her.

Mycroft sits back down as soon as the door closes and stares at Sherlock.

Sherlock takes a sip of his tea. “You had Anthea follow me?” 

Mycroft raises both his eyebrows in affirmation.

Sherlock scoffs. “Oh dear, Mycroft, cannot trust your own brother?”

“Well, would not want you slipping off any more deck rungs.”

Sherlock frowns. “What exactly did you think I would do, find the ship’s brothel? Probably what most of third class is anyway, isn’t that right, Mycroft?”

Mycroft smiles thinly and steeples his hands. “What you’re doing is worse.”

“And what am I doing?”

“You have a fiancée, Sherlock. You have obligations to uphold.”

“What exactly is it I am doing, Mycroft?” Sherlock insists, voice raised a notch.

“There are class divides for a reason, Sherlock!” Mycroft snaps, sitting up straight. “And I do not intend to see you wallow at the bottom rung because you like the stench!”

“Not enough china patterns and gold inlay for you there, Mycroft?”

“Not to mention what it could look like.” Sherlock clenches his jaw and keeps Mycroft’s gaze. “You following after that man like... ”

“Like what?” Sherlock asks, voice cold.

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Sherlock huffs darkly. “Hit too close to home for you, Mycroft?”

Mycroft’s hand snaps across the table and smacks the cup of tea out of Sherlock's hand so it flies away and shatters against the far wall. Sherlock drops his hands flat on the table. Mycroft purses his lips tightly then readjusts his tie. Sherlock resists the urge to knock the table over.

“You will have no further contact with this man; you will stay within your proper sphere; you will give Ms. Hooper the attention and courtesy she deserves as your fiancée; and you will listen to what I say.”

“Will I?”

“With mother and father gone I am the head of our household, Sherlock, certainly not you.” Mycroft picks up his umbrella from where it leans beside his chair and taps it on the floor. “You need to know your place.”

Sherlock stands up abruptly from his chair. “If you are indeed the head of this household then you should be the one marrying Ms. Hooper to fill the coffers and supposedly prolong the family name.”

Sherlock moves to stalk past Mycroft and back into their suite, when Mycroft slams the tip of his umbrella into the wall blocking Sherlock’s path. Sherlock glares down at Mycroft still in his chair.

“Everything I have done, everything I have planned, I have done for you - what is best for you.”

“Really?” Sherlock’s words ooze sarcasm. “What is best?”

“Do not think I would spare a thought at seeing your new companion thrown overboard to ensure your cooperation.” Sherlock stares at Mycroft, mouth half open with shock. Then Mycroft shifts and drops his umbrella away from the wall. He turns back to his cup of tea. “Do not forget that, Sherlock.”

\--------

Sherlock sits beside Molly, Mrs. Hudson to her left and Mycroft beyond that while they listen to a benediction about faith in the face of personal tragedy. Mycroft glances out of the corner of his eye every two minutes – warnings, remind himself of Sherlock’s presence, over protective, obsessive, dangerous mother hen. Sherlock gazes out the window, watches the clouds shift past faster now than even yesterday when he’d told John so up on A deck. Sherlock smiles at the memory of John’s impressed expression.

Then everyone stands up, music starting, and Captain Lestrade leads the parishioners in “Eternal Father, Strong to Save.” Sherlock rises with the rest but instead steps out of the line of chairs before Mycroft or anyone else notices. He reaches the back and quietly slides out through the glass doors. He slips quickly around a corner to wait for Anthea to pass by. She appears, as expected, but she fails to notice him leaning against the wall. She walks on and Sherlock steps down the grand staircase.

Sherlock finds John on D deck fidgeting in a cushioned chair, pretending to read a book. Sherlock smiles and stops right in front of him. 

John looks up over the edge of the book. “Oh!”

Sherlock snorts. “Don’t pretend you weren’t hoping to find me.”

John closes his book with one hand. “How did you know?”

“The ease of your acceptance of my request to show me third class last night shows you are already at ease with and welcome of my presence. During the festivities below decks you stayed with me almost exclusively during the night which implies a growing fondness. Also you said ‘this isn’t over yet, Sherlock’ when I left which could have been in relation to a number of events of the night but obviously intends for another meeting.” Sherlock smirks. “Also this is the first class reception area and the book you are reading came off of the shelf just over there so you can’t possibly be two thirds of the way through it already.” 

John purses his lips and puts the book down on the empty chair beside him. “You could just say you guessed.”

“I did not guess, I observed.”

“You guessed or maybe hoped.” John stands up into Sherlock’s personal space. “Any way you frame it, you wanted to see me too.”

“Did I?”

“Why go through all the show off if you didn’t care?”

Sherlock smiles and grips one of John’s wrists. He pulls John to a far corner of the reception room and drops them in a pair of vacant wicker chairs.

“You have to understand, John, my brother is dangerous.

John scoffs. “Most rich folks are dangerous in one way or another.”

“I’m not joking, John, and, as I would hope you’ve gathered, he does not like you.”

“I doubt he likes many who own less than three houses.”

Sherlock gives John a withering look then sighs. “John, he could hurt you.”

“I don’t care.” John shakes his head and waves a hand when Sherlock opens his mouth to protest. “No, don’t. One of a million things could hurt me. My sister could be in one of her drunken rages when we get to America; I could trip down any of these staircases; Hell, the boat could sink! I’m not going to _not_ do something I want to do because there is a possibility I could get hurt. I’d never do anything then.”

“This may be more than a possibility,” Sherlock hisses.

“Then why are you down here?” John hisses right back. “Why not just stay away?”

“I… I wanted to…” Sherlock mouth clamps shut. He breathes in slowly through his nose and stares out one of the portholes to his left. “I should have.”

“No, you shouldn’t.” Sherlock looks back at John. John puts his hands flat on the table, scrunches them into fists once then relaxes again. “Sherlock, you’re…” He laughs awkwardly. “I don’t know exactly, there is something about you.” He pauses then looks Sherlock in the eye. “You’re the most interesting person I have ever met and I don’t want you to just go back to those stuffy, first class, rich dinners and square box life that you almost jumped off a boat from two days ago.”

Sherlock stares at John but his voice refuses to will itself into any response. John watches him then pulls his hands off the small table.

“And I have to tell you, I don’t just want to go to America to save my sister yet again then go home and see if the Army decides to pull me back in despite the old wound.” John leans forward suddenly and grabs one of Sherlock’s hands in his. “All right?”

Sherlock smiles slowly and raises his eyebrows, curling his fingers around John’s. “We’ll just have to be careful then, won’t we?”

Suddenly, over John’s shoulder, Anthea appears at the foot of the stairs, fortunately looking in the wrong direction. Sherlock stands up and shifts around the table so he blocks John from view.

“You have to go now.”

John turns about in his chair. “What? Why?” He tries to stand up but Sherlock puts a hand on his shoulder.

“My watch dog has sniffed me out.” Sherlock walks backward away from John toward the steps. “I will find you later.”

John smiles. “B deck, outside.”

Sherlock nods then spins around and walks steadily toward Anthea. She turns and sees him when he is almost upon her. He puts his hand on her shoulder, turning her around toward the steps. She frowns as Sherlock pulls them both forward.

“And why has my dear brother sent you chasing after me this time?”

Anthea picks up his hand and drops it off her shoulder. “You have a short tour of the ship to go on with your fiancée and the ship’s designer.”

“Ah, Ms. Adler.” Sherlock flashes her a deferential smile. “And darling Mycroft as well I assume.”

She just raises an eyebrow in reply.

Once they reach the highest floor before the boat deck, they find Mycroft talking to James Moriarty as the last of the church goers depart for other enjoyments on the ship. Molly stands beside Mycroft half looking at the floor as usual. When she glances up she catches Sherlock’s eye and smiles nervously. Mycroft looks up as well but his smile is hardly as congenial as Molly’s.

“Sir, message for you.”

“Thank you, Lt. Donovan.”

Sherlock turns slightly at the conversation behind him. Just inside the doorway leading out to the deck, Captain Lestrade stands with one of his officers – a woman, young, hard lines on her face, ambitious, determined – and a piece of paper between them.

“Iceberg warning then,” Lestrade says to her and passes back the paper. “Pass it along to the look outs and the officer on duty.”

“Is that all sir?” She seems as though she wants him to say something else.

Lestrade clenches one fist and stares out at the ocean for a moment then turns back to Donovan. “That is all.”

She nods, then all but marches away. Sherlock walks over to the Captain, sliding into the spot the Sub-Lieutenant just vacated. Captain Lestrade blinks in surprise but collects himself quickly.

“Mr. Holmes, is it not, the younger?”

“Sherlock,” Sherlock supplies but does not offer a hand in greeting. “I see you just received an iceberg warning from your… I believe second officer?”

“Nothing to be worried about, sir, normal for this time of year.”

“Even with the ship close to full speed?” Sherlock asks and Lestrade’s eyes widen slightly. “Twenty knots at least now?”

“Twenty-two.”

Sherlock only makes a ‘hmm’ noise.

The captain smiles reassuringly. “Have no fear, Mr. Holmes, the crew and I know our jobs and will keep you all safe from harm.”

“Just because you know your jobs does not necessarily mean you do them well.”

Lestrade’s face falls but Sherlock lingers no longer with the man as he knows only empty reassurance will come from any inquiry. In truth, Sherlock has little worry. They are on the open sea and icebergs are quite large in most cases; at least those that could cause this ship harm. Still, Sherlock thinks perhaps he should take a further look at the ship’s design and course, if only for educational purposes.

“Did you enjoy exploring the length of the staircase?” Mycroft asks, suddenly by Sherlock’s side.

Sherlock stares straight ahead toward where Ms. Adler speaks to Molly. “Immensely.” Then he turns and looks at Mycroft. “Do relax, Mycroft, you know how I dislike church ceremony. I only wished to be away from that.”

Mycroft stares at him for a moment until Sherlock sees the creases in his forehead ease – Mycroft believes him.

\---------

“The ship herself is 269 meters long and over 53 meters high up to the top of the funnels.” Irene points above them and then down the length of the ship in front of them. “It can get up to 24 knots in speed.”

“So fast!” Molly gasps. “Are we going that speed right now?”

Irene chuckles. “Oh, not quite, my dear. Wouldn’t want to get to New York too early and have you miss out on enjoying all the charm of Titanic for the full ride, would we?”

Sherlock sees Molly blush again under the weight of Ms. Adler’s attention. 

Behind them Mycroft taps his umbrella against one of the lifeboats. “And what about these lifeboats on your unsinkable ship?”

“Well, there are laws, Mr. Holmes. There are twenty in all, fourteen standard –“

“Only twenty?” Sherlock cuts in. He looks up and down the ship counting those he can see, calculating out the other side because that cannot be true. “Twenty is half as much as you would need for the capacity of the ship.”

Irene focuses on him and nods. “Just about that, yes. I would not say it was entirely in line with my opinion for the lesser amount of boats. In fact I put in an extra row of davits to fit another row of boats.” She breathes in once through her nose then smiles again. “Some thought the deck would look too cluttered with more.”

Mycroft sniffs. “It looks cluttered as it is but I suppose it adds to the décor of being at sea.”

“I would think the sea décor would be even better when you’re underwater, Mycroft,” Sherlock quips.

“Fortunately for me the ship is afloat.”

Irene chuckles. “Have no fear Holmeses, Titanic is all the lifeboat you need. Shall we continue aft? There are quite a few more interesting touches. Would you like to see the glass ceiling of the grand staircase from above, Ms. Hooper?”

Irene holds out her arm for Molly which the other takes with yet another blush. Mycroft rolls his eyes and follows after. Sherlock hangs back, feigning interest in the gymnasium. Mycroft glances after him but Sherlock’s interest must seem sincere because he turns back to following the ladies. When the trio is five meters away Sherlock turns and walks the other way.

Ten minutes later Sherlock stands near the Bridge on the boat deck. In the distance over the forecastle, he sees John standing nearly on the very bow of the ship where normally passengers are not allowed. Sherlock glances to the crewman closest to him on the bridge. The man catches his eye. Sherlock shoots a look back out toward the bow again and gives the man a questioning look.

“Ah, you Sherlock then?” The man snorts with amusement. “Go on, just don’t let it round.”

Sherlock descends from the Boat deck and crosses the open deck then up the steps to the forecastle, ignoring the ‘no passengers’ signs. He walks steadily forward around the large iron rig until he stands just a couple meters back from where John waits with his bottom feet on the lowest rung of the bow.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks. “And how did you get out here?”

John looks over his shoulder and chuckles. “I walked out, of course.” When Sherlock only gives him an incredulous look, John points back toward the bridge. “Got some good whiskey on board and gave it to a few of the crew. Always helpful to bring a bribe or two when traveling.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “And this is how you use your bribe?”

“You use your bribes the way you want and I’ll use mine how I want.”

Sherlock shakes his head and crosses his arms. “So?”

“Come on.” John waves a hand at him. “Come up.”

“No.”

“Come on, Sherlock, it’s beautiful.” He glances back with a grin. “Setting sun on the ocean.”

“It still has thirty minutes until it is set completely.”

John sighs. “And to think I called you interesting a couple hours ago. Will you come up here?”

Sherlock takes a few steps closer then stops. “I’d rather not. Haven’t I spent enough time leaning over the edge of this ship?”

John jumps back off the rail and walks over to Sherlock. “All right, but just so you know, it felt like flying.

Sherlock smirks. “Sailing not enough for you?”

“Different than solid ground at least.” John tilts his head. “And what about you?”

“Oh, it feels like flying standing right here.”

John blinks, his lips twitch and Sherlock knows he hit spot on. Sherlock reaches up and brushes a bit of John’s hair blown askew by the wind back in to place. Then he drops his hand back to his side.

“Would you care to help me in a bit of subterfuge?”

John frowns and raises both eyebrows.

\--------

“Oi, lads?” The two crewmen on the bridge turn and look at John. “All right?”

The one smiles. “You all right, John? Enjoy your view?”

John laughs. “What’s the point of friends if you don’t use them?”

“All right, just don’t make a habit of it.”

“What, didn’t like what I brought you? I know how to treat the crew.”

The second man snorts. “At least someone does.”

John walks in and stands between the two of them, looking out at the ocean. He continues to chat - ocean, work, liquor - and while the two crewmen pay attention to John’s charisma, Sherlock creeps in behind them and enters the Captain’s office. In the office Sherlock strides straight to the desk. He sees a pile of papers - ocean charts, passenger and crew manifests, ship routes - and to one side are recent reports from the mainland, including the iceberg warnings. Sherlock glances over the desk quickly then plucks the top two slips of paper from the pile and sneaks out of the office. 

Outside on the bridge, the three men laugh hysterically, one crewman slapping John on the back.

“And dinna have a clue! He just walked back like it was nothing!”

The laughs increase and John flashes a look at Sherlock. John wraps his arms around the shoulders of the men, giving them both a shake and keeping their eyes firmly away from the exits. Sherlock smiles and tip toes off the bridge out onto the deck. A minute later, John walks out and Sherlock moves into step beside him.

“So, what did you do in there?” John asks.

Sherlock holds up the pieces of paper. “Iceberg warning.”

“What?” John says with concern. “Is it... should we be worried?”

Sherlock shrugs, reading the papers. “That all depends.”

“On what?”

“The ship, the crew, the icebergs, and the weather, to mention the largest factors.”

John huffs half relieved and half nervous. “Oh well then, no worry at all.”

Sherlock very suddenly stops walking and John skids to a halt just in time. Sherlock knows the ship was built as any other, longer perhaps and more luxurious, but still a ship which floats and turns and follows the same laws of physics.

“I think we need to look at the plans.”

“The plans?”

“The blue prints.”

John says nothing for a long moment then, “Are we going to break into Ms. Adler’s room?”

“Yes.”

“Is that a good idea?” John frowns.

“Perhaps not.”

He looks down at John who grins back at him. “Let’s go then!”

Eight minutes later Sherlock knocks on Irene’s door. It opens almost instantly to reveal Ms. Alder wearing a white woman’s suit, red tie about her neck, and short, stylish black boots.

“Mr. Holmes? How may I help you?” She smiles and leans slightly against the door frame. 

Sherlock smiles right back. “This is a rather odd request, but my dear fiancée Ms. Molly Hooper has requested the honor of your presence.”

“Oh? She did see me somewhat recently on our tour of the ship.”

“Yes, of course, but she was hoping for a more private affair with just you ladies and not my brother or myself to interfere. I know it is short notice but...” Sherlock puts on an affected air. “She seems so insistent.”

Irene touches the small watch pinned to her suit and makes a face. “I believe I have time I can spare.”

Sherlock smiles with all the feeling of a normal person. “Thank you very much, Ms. Adler.”

Irene steps back into her room and a minute later is out the door with all the proper farewells, off toward Sherlock’s suite. 

Leaning against the wall, John stares at Sherlock with surprise. “Quite a display.”

Sherlock smirks, hand still stuck in Irene’s door so it could not lock behind her. “I have practice.”

Sherlock swings open the door and they clamber into the room, John shutting the door behind them.

“So,” he sounds nervous and excited at the same time. “We’re looking for the ship blueprints?”

“Exactly!” Sherlock leafs through papers on the desk. “They wouldn’t be strictly needed for this maiden voyage but it couldn’t hurt to bring them. Plus she is the ship designer so there may be points when she would want to show off these original designs or there might be need for minor changes, notes to take or - “

“Sherlock.”

“And for what I can tell she is a proud woman, likes to show off a bit,” Sherlock moves to the wardrobe against the wall and flings it open. “So she would surely want to have every bit of her baby –“

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock shoves a stack of books aside and scatters some fountain pens. “Also, should anything go wrong one must have the – “

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock snaps his head around to see John holding up a set of blue prints. “They were on the bed.”

Sherlock steps back and closes the wardrobe doors with a loud click. Sherlock purses his lips. “Convenient.”

“What are we looking for on them?” John asks.

Sherlock strides over, taking the blueprints out of John’s hand and unfolding them on the bed. “Not sure yet.”

John stands beside Sherlock, looking over his shoulder, hip touching Sherlock’s. Sherlock has to closes his eyes once then open them again to focus. 

Sherlock turns pages, looks at each deck, each safe guard put in – passenger quarters, crewmen quarters, boiler rooms, water tight bulk heads, coal chutes, dining rooms, cargo holds, water pumps, kitchens, pool. Apart from the too small rudder he cannot find what it is that rubs him the wrong way about this ship.

“Wait!” John hisses, suddenly putting a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Did you hear -”

“Yes.” 

Irene’s voice in the hall.

“Can we go out -”

“We have to.”

Sherlock drops the blue prints and they walk to the door. Sherlock opens the door a crack and peeks out into the hall. Down to the left he sees the edge of Ms. Adler’s white suit and black boots just at the meeting of two hallways speaking to someone.

“Now!” Sherlock whispers urgently. “Go now!”

They rush out into the hall as quietly as possible, not looking back until they bend around another corner and supposed safety. They walk side by side - hands brushing, almost jogging - until they exit onto a small strip of deserted deck and lean panting against the wall. John smiles up at Sherlock, face exhilarated and happier than any moment Sherlock has seen before in their short acquaintance.

Sherlock touches the edge of John’s jaw and kisses him. John breathes in sharply through his nose then touches Sherlock’s hip with one hand and kisses him back. For a moment Sherlock believes nothing has felt more right in his life before. Under the awning of the ship, in a small strip of exposed deck, they kiss, hands move them closer together and no one sees but the two of them. Sherlock presses John against the wall while John pushes up into the kiss, all lips and John’s hands curving around Sherlock’s back just above his pants line. John reaches up and touches Sherlock's curls, laughs lightly into the kiss. Sherlock pulls back and bumps their noses before kissing John again, touching the fabric of John’s vest and curving around to hold John like the most precious thing which has ever entered his life.

“How did you know I wanted you to kiss me?” John asks, lips just a centimeter away from Sherlock’s.

“Really?” Sherlock gasps incredulously.

John chuckles, and thumbs Sherlock’s cheek. “I thought you’d be amused by the question.”

Sherlock smiles slowly. “I am.” And he kisses John again as the sun finally sets.

\-------

“Welcome to first class.” Sherlock says as he opens the door to the sitting room of his suite.

John steps in and whistles, turning around in a circle. “Could buy a house just from the pieces of this room!”

“A modest house.”

John snorts, shrugging out of his brown jacket. “Just the two floors.”

Sherlock waves a hand at the couches. “Please, sit.” Sherlock holds up a finger. “One moment.”

John sits as Sherlock walks out of the room and into an adjoining bedroom. He comes out again a moment later holding his violin case. John raises both eyebrows and tilts his head. Sherlock tips the case side to side once then holds it still with both hands.

“I thought… well…” Sherlock clears his throat and looks over John’s head at the dark mahogany walls. “I thought I could play something.” He looks back at John seated in front of him. “For you.”

John smiles gently and nods. “I’d like that.”

Sherlock sits in a chair across from John, puts the case down on the table and removes his violin and bow. He shifts the violin around to rest under his chin and plucks the strings a few times, in tune enough at least. Then he slides the bow up the strings and plays – Rachmaninoff, “Vocalise,” (brand new and so beautiful when Sherlock first heard it he spent a week doing nothing but learn the piece). He may not have a vocalist or a piano to accompany him but the violin stands alone just as well with the music; long flowing tones with graceful rises and falls, each note wrapping the listener in heartfelt hope and longing and an odd sort of peace. Sherlock closes his eyes as he plays, the music laid out in his mind. By the time he finishes he has nearly forgotten John is there.

When Sherlock opens he eyes John stares back at him. John smiles very slightly then stands up. He steps around the table then leans over Sherlock and kisses him. Sherlock lets the violin slide slowly into his lap, lets go of the bow and cups John’s cheek with one hand. 

John leans back slightly, Sherlock’s hand still on his cheek. “Amazing.” Then he pulls back away from Sherlock’s hand and stands up straight. “I have something for you as well.”

Sherlock cocks his head. “Oh?”

John reaches into his pocket and pulls out a smaller version of the notebook Sherlock saw him with before. “Wrote something while you were off.”

“Oh my, a night of the arts on Titanic.”

“Private party,” John says and steps back over to the couch.

Sherlock follows and they sit down side by side. John leans back against one arm of the couch so he half faces Sherlock and opens the notebook. Sherlock sits similarly in the middle of the couch so their knees touch and props one elbow up on the top of the couch to rest his head against his knuckles.

John clears his throat and reads:

“I met a man standing on a railing, on the very back of the grandest ship in the world. His dark curly hair blew in the wind from the ship along with the tails of his fine tuxedo coat. His chin was sharp, his fingers long, and his whole body though motionless in contemplation bespoke only grace. His hands were artist hands, smooth with a life of ease, but his expression looked as deep and dark as the water below. 

How could I let him fall without hearing his voice?

Yet when he spoke, when he told me exactly how he would freeze to death and drown, I knew that idle hands did not mean idleness. The way his eyes seemed to read everything about me in just a look, how he seemed to know too much because he saw like other people could not.

And when he fell how could I not hold him fast and haul him back? This genius.”

Sherlock’s hand falls to lie on the edge of the couch, figures just brushing the nape of John’s neck. “Poetic prose.”

John smiles wryly. “Not my normal medium but you can blame yourself for that.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock drums his fingertips slowly along John’s neck. “You called me ‘genius.’”

“Would you like me to change it?”

“No.”

John lets the notebook fall out of his hands and reaches up to grasp Sherlock’s hand at his neck. John threads their fingers together then leans forward and kisses Sherlock again, harder and more insistent than the sweet press of earlier. Sherlock slides his free hand under John’s vest, only thin fabric between his hand and John’s skin. John breathes sharply through his nose and pushes Sherlock back. Sherlock gives easily until he lies on his back on the couch with John over him, hands on Sherlock’s chest now. John kisses, tasting like tea and heat, and he unbuttons the top button of Sherlock’s shirt. 

Then they hear a sudden knock and the doorknob rattles. John jolts up to sitting. They hear the sound of keys.

“Go,” Sherlock says sitting up, John still in his lap. Then the key clicks in the lock. “Go, go, left, go.”

They jump up from the couch – John’s jacket forgotten on a chair – and race out of the sitting room, through one bedroom, and out another door just as Sherlock sees back behind them Anthea enter the sitting room. They run out into the hall and down a few meters before slowing to a walk.

“That was close,” John whispers then looks over his shoulder. “Shit.”

Sherlock glances back to see Anthea exiting the door. The two of them break into a run again, whipping around a corner. They run past first class suites until they reach the grand staircase. 

“Come on,” Sherlock grabs John’s arm and whips around the corner to the elevators.

They skid into a free elevator, ordering the operator to send them down. The man gives them a confused look but closes the gate and starts them downward. Anthea hits the gates a minute later, glaring down at them. Sherlock stares up at her with a smirk and only raises a disdainful eyebrow. They take the elevator down as far as it will go to E deck. They jog down the hall and into the passenger hallways until they stop to catch their breath. 

Sherlock stands up, about to suggest another route back up to the open decks when John grabs his arm and pulls. “She’s back, come on!”

Sherlock flashes a look back, sees the tell-tale hair bun, and they run. They run along corridors, down another flight of stairs, then Sherlock pulls them through a ‘Crew Only’ door. They twist down another stairwell and through a heavy door into some area with machinery. John grabs the lock bar and knocks it down into place.

Sherlock shrugs in question and John shakes his head. “Just in case; I’m tired of running!”

They follow a narrow hall through the bowels of the ship until they go through a door and find themselves in a large cargo hold.

John scoffs then chuckles. “You rich do travel with a lot, don’t you? I thought you had enough up in your suite.”

“Must take the whole house.”

John weaves through the boxes secured by thick ropes, peeks at expensive leather trunks, kicks the tyres on a car he passes. He jumps up on top of a stack of two crates – better view of the whole room. John laughs again and looks down at Sherlock when he walks over. 

John smiles at Sherlock then squats on top of his crate. “So is this what the view was like from the railing?”

Sherlock snorts. “That’s my view all the time when it comes to you.”

John opens his mouth in mock offense then grins. He runs a hand through Sherlock’s curls before he pulls back and jumps down beside Sherlock.

“All alone now,” Sherlock says.

John nods. “I noticed.”

John fists his hand in Sherlock’s shirt and tugs, pulling Sherlock down into a kiss. John pushes Sherlock back into the stack of crates as he kisses, digging ropes into Sherlock’s back. Sherlock grips John’s shoulder, bites John’s lip making the other hiss and laugh at the same time. John moves and bites Sherlock's neck so Sherlock groans with surprise but certainly not refusal. Sherlock tears open the buttons of John’s vest - luckily not ripping any out - so he can get past the shirt beneath and touch John’s hot skin. John gasps at Sherlock’s cold hands but he just kisses Sherlock harder on the lips again. 

Sherlock’s hips rise against John’s, brushing their erections together through too much fabric making John gasp and groan at once. He pulls at Sherlock's neck, trying to get Sherlock closer but Sherlock pulls John’s hips forward instead, keeping his lips teasingly out of reach.

“Bloody bastard,” John groans with the friction and bites Sherlock’s neck again in retaliation.

Sherlock laughs. “Oh, I think - oh, gnnnhh...”

“Right, enough.” John yanks Sherlock to the left and shoves him back on a low stack of crates.

Sherlock hitches up, John’s one hand on his chest and the other on his hip, so he’s flat on his back on top of the crate. It’s not entirely comfortable but when John straddles his waist Sherlock stops thinking about anything else but the man above him. John starts to unbutton Sherlock's trousers followed a second later by Sherlock doing the same thing to John like a race.

“Oh, trying to distract me?” John says. “You won’t - ahhh, oh my... ah,”

Sherlock grins in triumph as he grips John through his pants. “What was that?”

“Jesus...”

Sherlock maneuvers past the fabric of John’s pants to hand on skin and slowly strokes up and down, John’s breath coming faster with each motion – John’s own hand frozen on Sherlock’s trousers. Then John shakes his head, suddenly staring so intensely at Sherlock that he pauses, lost in John’s eyes. John leans down and kisses Sherlock through jerky breathes and gets his own hand through Sherlock's trousers and pants. Sherlock gasps into John’s lips, the feeling of John’s hand tight around his penis, thumb moving in ways Sherlock hadn’t considered before.

“You’ve had som... you... oh goo...” Sherlock squeezes John harder, not willing to give up control.

John gasps. “Oh god, I’m so.... no, no, not yet.”

John suddenly shoves backward out of Sherlock's reach. Sherlock jerks up onto his elbows to stare accusingly. However, before he can vocally protest John leaving him quite frustrated, John pulls Sherlock’s pants and trousers down part way and takes Sherlock in his mouth. Sherlock breathes in so hard he cannot even make a noise. The sight of John between his legs makes Sherlock dizzy and the feeling of John’s mouth has him falling onto his back again, completely at a loss for control. For probably the first time in his life, Sherlock cannot think at all.

Sherlock feels the final build up coming and he fists his hand in John’s hair. However, just before he can come, John slides up Sherlock's torso, hand over both their cocks and he kisses Sherlock, hot and slow and with his free hand tangled in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock comes hard with his face buried in John’s neck, followed a few seconds later by John gasping into his hair. 

Neither moves for a long moment, just breathing against each other, until John moves his hand out from between them to plant it on the crate beside them. Sherlock rolls his head to the side and looks up at John out of the corner of his eye.

Sherlock rubs a lazy circle on John’s hip and tries to keep his suddenly tired eyes open. “That was interesting.”

John chuckles, lying down on top of Sherlock. “‘Interesting’ is an interesting word choice but yes, yes, it was.”

“I would wager that was not your first time doing something like that.”

John makes a wry face. “No, it was not, though I will admit it isn’t a common occurrence.”

Sherlock kisses the corner of John’s mouth. “Lucky me.”

\--------

After a clean-up leaving both their handkerchiefs no longer usable, Sherlock and John reassemble pieces of clothing and find their way back to higher decks. They find a door and climb outside on deck again. The cold hits like a slap against their heated skin and John unconsciously moves closer to Sherlock, the only one with any sort of jacket.

“Gorgeous,” John says.

Sherlock turns to John and sees the other staring up at the stars, what looks like the entire Milky Way stretched out as a blanket above them.

“Hmm, yes.”

John elbows Sherlock. “Come on, how can you not enjoy that?”

“I did not say I didn’t appreciate them; the aesthetic beauty is obvious but in general I don’t... I don’t really look at them.”

John shakes his head. “Why not?”

“What purpose do they really serve?”

John snorts. “Just when I think I’ve got the run of you.”

“You’ve known me for three days.”

“I’d like to know you longer.” John glances around, voice quieting. “I mean, when the ship docks we’ll… well, I don’t… we could...”

Sherlock touches one of John’s hands, wrapping his fingers tightly around John’s. “It’s insane.”

“I know.”

“But I can’t go back to that.”

John shakes his head. “I don’t want you to. I want... I want you to stay.”

Sherlock smiles. “With you.”

Suddenly above them a bell rings. They glance up to see the look outs pulling the bell rope, one with a phone receiver at his ear.

“What is...” John starts and looks at Sherlock.

Suddenly Sherlock feels the ship change direction toward the Starboard side, the engines stutter and Sherlock thinks ‘too small rudder.’ “We’re turning.”

“Toward what?”

“I don’t think it’s ‘toward.’” Sherlock walks slowly to the edge, trying to see around the raised portion of the boat in front of them. “I think it’s ‘from.’”

Then the whole ship jerks. John grabs Sherlock's arm and they both stare at the right side of the ship. A horrible scrapping noise of ice on iron fills the air and they see a huge iceberg rising from the water beside them. Chunks of ice fall on to the deck, the two of them jumping back to avoid being hit. The iceberg scrapes on down the side of the ship, screeching the whole way, until finally they separate.

“My god...” John murmurs as the ship slowly passes the iceberg.

The blue prints of the ship swing into view in Sherlock’s mind – length of the scrape, water tight support walls, pressure of impact. 

John gasps. “We just hit an iceberg.”

“I noticed.”

“We just hit,” John repeats, pointing aft, “a bloody iceberg!”

“Thank you for the obvious yet again, John,” Sherlock snaps.

John turns back to Sherlock and fixes him with a glare. “Forgive me if I’m a little surprised.”

They walk over to the edge, the iceberg beginning to disappear behind them. The ship starts to slow through the water, the engines now at full stop. Sherlock cranes his head and tries to peer down at the damage below. He cannot tell from the angle – let alone the outside of the ship – just how serious or not this is. Hitting anything obviously is not a good sign.

“Perhaps Titanic won’t be the grandest ship in the world anymore with a scratch like that,” John jokes, bumping Sherlock with his hip.

Sherlock stares at John then grabs his arm and marches them toward the bridge. They climb the stairs up to the next level just as Ms. Adler, Captain Lestrade, Second Lt. Donovan, and First Lt. Anderson all rush by in deep conversation.

“She’s all buckled in at the forward hull,” Anderson says.

“Can you shore up?” Lestrade asks.

“Not unless the pumps get ahead.”

“Have you seen the damage to the mail hold?” Irene asks, blue prints under her arm.

“No, she’s already under water,” Donovan answers.

The foursome then hurries down the steps Sherlock and John just came up. Sherlock and John turn to each other, matching expressions of worry and alarm.

“It’s not just a scrape,” John says.

Sherlock shakes his head. “No.”

“What do we do?”

“Back to the suite.”

\--------

Sherlock and John leave the deck and walk back into first class at the grand staircase. Already people in life vests crowd the area looking confused and annoyed. Crewmen run all around getting drinks and saying soothing, meaningless things to keep the passengers calm, most clearly unaware of what the status of the ship is themselves. Sherlock takes John’s wrist and moves quickly through the confusion, down the corridor toward his suite – heads poking out of doors, women in dressing gowns, men growling threats, sleep fogged faces, and none of the worry they should have set in yet.

Finally they reach B52 and enter the living room. Inside Mycroft, Anthea, two crewmembers and an older man who is clearly the master-at-arms wait. Sherlock lets go of John and stops short taking in the scene.

“What is it?”

“That’s the one,” Mycroft says as he stands from the couch and points to John. “He must be contained until we can take him back to England.”

“What?” Sherlock and John say at the same time.

The two crewmen step forward and seize John by the arms. “Oi, get off me!” John snaps.

“What is the meaning of this?” Sherlock growls at Mycroft.

“This man is an Irish sympathizer. He was seeking to gain your trust to get closer to me and spy on our majesty’s government.”

“What!” John shouts just as Sherlock snaps, “That is absurd!”

“Take him away,” Mycroft says.

“What? No!” John cries, pulling back against the two men who drag him toward the door.

“Don’t give us a fight,” the master-at-arms says as if bored.

“Don’t touch him!” Sherlock shouts, stepping in front of the master-at-arm then looking around him at Mycroft. “Mycroft, don’t do this. There are more important things now than your petty –“

“Do relax, Sherlock. This man has clouded your judgment. It’s natural to feel ashamed.”

“Ashamed!”

Mycroft smiles benignly. “You cannot be blamed for your actions.” He turns to the men. “Thank you gentlemen, I shall follow up with you later.”

The master-at-arms gives Sherlock a look then steps around him.

“Sherlock!” John shouts as the shove him out the door. “No. It’s not true! Let me go!”

Anthea follows behind, stopping at the door. “I’ll make sure they don’t lose him along the way, sir.” Anthea pauses to raise an eyebrow at Sherlock, slight smile on her face.

Sherlock never wanted to punch someone so much in his life before.

Then the door closes behind them leaving Sherlock and Mycroft alone. Mycroft walks slowly over to the couches and reaches down to pick up his cup of tea off of the table. He takes a slow sip then puts the cup down again. Sherlock watches him, fists clenched at his side.

Mycroft stands up straight and stares at Sherlock. “I did warn you.”

“You bastard.”

“Careful, Sherlock. You are insulting our mother.”

“You are an absolute idiot.” Sherlock steps closer, right up in Mycroft’s face. “You cannot be out of control of anything, especially me, which I can assure you is not going to continue!”

“Pull yourself together, Sherlock, where would you be without me?”

“Much happier, I should imagine.”

Mycroft suddenly shoves Sherlock in the chest so hard he knocks back into the wall with a loud smack. Sherlock gasps in pain but before he can move again, Mycroft slams his forearm over Sherlock’s chest holding him against the wall.

“We all have roles to play, Sherlock. I champion the crown and you do as I say.”

“Get off of me!” Sherlock barks. 

“You will continue our family line,” Mycroft continues, undeterred and voice venomous. “And you will forget that man.”

“I will not!”

Mycroft shoves him into the wall harder so Sherlock hisses. “I plan to be prime minister one day, Sherlock, while you have a seat in the House of Lords and a lovely brood of children. Do not think that will somehow change!”

Sherlock grabs Mycroft’s arm, pushes back against him. “You’ll get none of that if this ship sinks with us still on it!”

“Stop it!” Mycroft turns and Sherlock gazes around him to see Molly standing in the middle of the living room – her heavy blue coat around her shoulders and more emotion on her face than Sherlock has ever seen before. “Enough of your fighting! I don’t think now is the time!”

“Ms. Hooper…” Mycroft starts.

“I have been in the hall, life vests passed to every person, all to board the life boats? You can have your sibling squabble later!” Molly pushes her arms through the sleeves of her coat. “We have to go now.”

Mycroft drops his arm and Sherlock smiles at Molly’s moment of dominance. Molly turns on her heel and marches over to the door, pulling it open. Sherlock and Mycroft can do nothing but follow her.

\--------

Out in the hall a passing crew member hands a life jacket to Molly, assuring them he will be back with more for Mycroft and Sherlock. Molly clutches the life jacket to her chest but continues to lead the way to the grand staircase. Out in the main area, the amount of people has increased and Sherlock sees people actually out on deck now starting to fill life boats. The glow of a flare lights the sky outside for a moment before falling into the sea.

“Oh my god…” Mycroft mutters, finally realizing what is happening.

Sherlock hears a familiar voice to the right and turns to see Mr. Moriarty and Ms. Adler speaking heatedly near a corner. Sherlock turns his head, focusing on their lips. 

“When can we get underway?” Mr. Moriarty insists, hands on hips and shaking his head.

Ms. Adler breathes in slowly. “She can stay afloat with four compartments full, but not five.”

“This ship cannot sink…” Mr. Moriarty waves his arms in the air once before slowly lowering them again, obvious disbelief in every motion. “It... it can’t. It can’t!”

“Yes, it can.” She puts a hand against her forehead. “And it will, I assure you that.”

He stares at her, mouth hanging open. Ms. Adler looks at him a moment longer then turns away. Sherlock springs to life and catches her arm just before she mounts the stairs.

“Ms. Adler.” She turns to look at him, grief plain on her face. “The ship… it will sink.” She nods grimly. “How long?”

“Two hours at best, Mr. Holmes,” she replies quietly. “Please, tell only who you can. We must avoid panic as long as possible.”

“The life boats?”

She nods again. “You may… no, you _will_ have trouble getting a boat, so try as soon and as quickly as you can.”

They stare at each other until Sherlock nods. “Good luck.”

She reaches out and squeezes his hand once. “And you.”

Then she turns and climbs the stairs like one who sees the end on the near horizon. 

“John…” Sherlock shuts his eyes and his brain clicks into action – blueprints, crew manifest, section designations; elevator to E deck, left crewman’s passage, right, left at the stairs, corridor, office of the master-at-arms. 

Sherlock’s eyes snap open. He turns, Mycroft with his hands on his hips staring at the spectacle and Molly looking right at Sherlock.

“Get to a boat, Molly.”

She blinks. “What?”

“Get to a boat and look after Mycroft, despite the prat he is.”

Molly’s eyes widen with realization. “Don’t, Sherlock, you can get a boat now too. They must let men on as well; they have to.”

“I have to go, Molly.”

“I’ll wait for you!”

“Don’t.”

Then he turns away and heads toward the elevators.

“Sherlock… Sherlock!” He hears Mycroft shout behind him. “No! Come back here!”

Sherlock pays no heed to his brother’s shouts but runs to the nearest elevator, slamming the gate shut as he jumps in.

“All the way down.”

“What?” The man looks aghast. “Sir, you have to go on deck to –“

“Take me down now or I shall do it myself!”

The man throws the lever sending them down the shaft. When they hit E deck water starts to rush into the base of the elevator.

“Oh my god!” The man gasps.

Before he can restart the elevator back up, Sherlock slams open the gate and trudges out into the water.

“Come back!” The operator shouts after Sherlock but Sherlock keeps left and through the crewman’s passage.

After a few more turns the water starts to rise higher, up around Sherlock’s thighs. Finally, Sherlock enters the hallway where the master–at–arms’ office should be. The whole area is deserted, a discarded life vest as well as some shredded papers floating along with a trio of chairs.

“John!” Sherlock shouts down the hall. “John!”

“Sherlock!” Sherlock hears further off.

Sherlock rushes as best he can through the high water until he finds the right door and pushes it open. A desk tries to obstruct the entrance but Sherlock shoves hard and the door opens. He looks up to see John crouched on top of a horizontal pipe with his hands cuffed around a perpendicular pipe.

“Sorry for the mess,” John grins sarcastically, “if I’d known I’d be having guests…”

“Where is the key?” Sherlock asks.

John shakes his head. “Underwater? In Anthea’s pocket? Maybe in that cabinet there.” He nods his head toward the left wall.

Sherlock sloshes over to the cabinet. “What kind?”

“Small and silver.”

Sherlock looks up and down the shakes his head. “All brass.” 

He turns back to the room around them, the desk beginning to float with the rising water. On the desk lie some papers fastened by a straight pin. Sherlock picks up the papers and pulls out the pin, letting the papers fall. 

“Hold your hands out.”

John gives him a quizzical look but puts out his hands. Sherlock twists John’s wrist around and puts the straight pin into the left key hole. Sherlock feels around, twisting, until after a minute and a half of work the lock clicks open. Sherlock pulls the one cuff free then works the other open in half the time, pulling the cuffs completely off.

John rubs his wrists and stares at Sherlock.

“What?” Sherlock scoffs and smirks. “Of course I can pick a lock.”

John nods. “Of course.” John jumps down off the pipe into the water now up to Sherlock’s waist. “Fuck! That is freezing!”

“It won’t get any better.”

They slog through the water and out into the hall. Sherlock turns to the right but sees water rushing down the stairwell they need to go up.

“Oh, shit,” John groans.

“This way then.”

They walk in the other direction down the crewman’s passage, the water lowering slightly. They turn around some corners until they finally find another stairwell and head up. Twisting up a level, they reach a landing and a door reading ‘passenger area.’ 

“It’s locked,” John says as he pulls at the door knob.

Sherlock rubs a hand through his hair. “We can’t go back now, I could try to –“

Then John backs up two steps and smashes into the door with his shoulder. It cracks part way then John smashes into it again and they spill out into the corridor.

Sherlock huffs a laugh. “That works.”

“Faster.” John smiles. “Can’t wait for your lock picking.”

In this corridor more people rush past, all clearly third class, going in both directions – all confusion, no crew members to help. Then they reach a large mass of people at the base of some stairs.

“John!” One man Sherlock recognizes from the revelry of the other night. 

“Michael!” John gives him a quick hug.

“They’ve got the gates locked!” Michael says

“What?” John snaps.

Another man steps up behind John, panting. “Just came from that way, big crowd at the other stairs and still gates up.”

“They have to let us out, Davey, don’t they?”

“Let’s try this way,” John says.

The four of them leave the crowds behind turning down two more passageways, the people thinning out. They hear voices in the distance and reach a small gate with half a dozen people talking to a crew member on the other side.

“Just open the gate!” One woman says. “For God sakes!”

“The main stair is to the –“

“Let us out of here!” the man with her cries, echoed by two others.

“Open the gate,” Sherlock says as he marches through to the front of the group.

The crewman shakes his head. “Go back to the main gate.”

“The main gate isn’t open and you cannot leave us down here to die!” Sherlock shouts.

“We are boarding the first class –“

“Into only twenty boats!”

John smacks the bars with one hand. “Just open it, you bastard!”

“Go back to the main stairwell!” The man shouts back.

“Here!” Michael says from behind him and they turn to look at him, his one hand on a wooden bench.

The people in front of the gate flatten against the wall as the four men grab the bench, two on each end, and wrench it free of the floor. John moves to the one side and Davey on the other with Michael and Sherlock at the back.

“On three,” John says, lining the bench up with the gate. “One.”

“Stop!” The crewman tries feebly. “You can’t!”

“Two! Three!”

They slam the bench into the gate with all their force once, pull back then slam into it again, knocking the gate off its hinges with a crash. The crewman jumps back against the wall. They drop the bench and all climb over it in a line. 

“You cannot destroy White Star line property, that is –“

“I will punch you,” John snaps at the crewman as they go by.

The crewman sags against the wall as they walk away. “…I hope you’ve enjoyed your trip.”

\--------

Back on deck, Michael and Davey split off to try around the other side of the ship while Sherlock and John head toward the aft. They find a boat packing women and men in tightly under the eye of Officer Donovan. Sherlock sees a gun clasped in her right hand – things are moving toward chaos.

“We can both get on,” Sherlock says.

“What if they are going by class?”

“They’re not!”

“Maybe.” Sherlock and John both whip around to see Mycroft standing right behind them. “But they might pick one over the other.”

“Sherlock!” Molly appears at Mycroft’s side. “We got Mrs. Hudson into a boat but I... I didn’t know about you...”

“Molly, you should have gotten on the boat!” Sherlock insists.

“Calm down, Sherlock, there is one right here for you.” Mycroft shoves Sherlock and Molly forward two steps.

“Come on board, miss,” Donovan says, taking Molly’s hand.

Molly steps up and into the boat. She sits and looks expectantly at Sherlock.

“One more here,” Donovan says and turns to Sherlock. “Sir?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No.”

“Sherlock, get in the boat,” Mycroft says sternly.

Sherlock stares at John. “No.”

“It’s all right,” John says squeezing Sherlock’s hand. “Get in the boat. I can get another.”

“No, you can’t. There aren’t any others.”

“There will be.” John steps back out of Sherlock's reach. “You get on that boat.”

“Sir,” Officer Donovan insists. “If you don’t get on I will put someone else.”

“Sherlock...” Molly says quietly.

Mycroft touches Sherlock’s arm. “Anthea is waiting around the other side of the ship with a boat. Do you really think I would not have an escape plan?” 

“Oh, now that I can believe,” Sherlock growls with disdain but holds his ground.

“Sherlock, you are my brother. I only want to protect you!” Mycroft insists. “If that means getting John on a boat too then _fine_ but please, get on this boat now!”

Sherlock glances back and forth between them, breathing heavier, too many thoughts swirling in his head. He stares at John and shakes his head.

“Don’t worry,” John steps closer, “I can handle your brother.”

“Sir!”

Sherlock steps up and on to the boat, sitting down beside Molly. Officer Donovan blows her whistle and the boat begins to lower. 

~~~

_Up near the bow of the ship, most people heading aft, Lt. Anderson finishes filling a boat, ready to launch. Mr. James Moriarty watches the bow of the ship sinking further below the waterline as he helps another blond, crying woman on board. He looks at the deck then jumps up and into the lifeboat, squishing the woman to the side._

_Lt. Anderson pauses with his hands in the air and stares at Mr. Moriarty. James does not turn his head, only closes his eyes and tightens his fingers on his trousers._

_“Lower away!” Anderson shouts._

~~~

Sherlock gazes up at the pair standing by the edge as the hull seems to rise beside him. John smiles reassuringly down at him but his hands grip the edge so tightly his knuckles are white. Mycroft smiles too but Sherlock reads triumph, not relief or pleasure or worry in his expression.

“No...” Sherlock whispers.

Sherlock tenses to stand when suddenly Molly grabs his arm. Sherlock turns to her in surprise.

“Good luck, Sherlock, and...” She puts both her hands on his arm and squeezes hard. “Be happy with him.”

Sherlock breathes in slowly, seeing Molly Hooper for the very first time – for a moment he wishes he’d known the woman he sees now all this time.

Sherlock puts a hand over Molly’s on his arm. “And you, Molly.”

Then he stands and jumps from the lifeboat back onto A deck, landing on the edge at his waist and climbing over with the help of two people still on board. Sherlock runs along the deck and into the ship just as John comes running down the grand staircase.

“Are you mad!” John shouts as they nearly crash into each other at the base of the stairs. John grips Sherlock’s shoulders so their chests almost touch then pulls back. “Are you absolutely mad?”

“I am not leaving you on this ship alone to die!”

“So your solution is you die too?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “We are not dying, John Watson, not now.”

“Sherlock!” Sherlock looks up and sees Mycroft at the top of the stairs. “Enough of this.”

Mycroft twists the end of his umbrella exposing the sword inside. He pulls it out completely and starts down the stairs.

“Run!” Sherlock shouts, grabbing the edge of John’s vest and pulling hard.

“What –”

Mycroft swings, almost on them, and nearly catches John in the arm with the sword. Sherlock and John bolt down the stairs, knocking into the railing running faster and faster.

“Watson!” Mycroft shouts. 

They run past B deck and C deck, nearly slamming into the wall as they skid around the corner landing on D deck. They grab the railing to continue down when suddenly Mycroft slams into John and they fall in a tumble of limps down and down the stairs from D deck until E deck and into the water.

“John!” Sherlock shouts running down after them.

Mycroft gets up first, sword lost in the water, and yanks John up by the shirt. He punches John in the chest then again right in the jaw. John groans and grips Mycroft hand on his shirt, twisting Mycroft’s wrist around so he drops John into the water again. Mycroft slips on something under the water, nearly falling as well, but regroups before John recovers his senses from the blows. He grabs John by the neck and dunks him under the water, holding him down.

Sherlock finally reaches the water line and yanks Mycroft by the shoulders, heaving him off John. “Stop, Mycroft! Stop!”

Mycroft attempts a wild punch at Sherlock but Sherlock gets there first and slams the heel of his palm into Mycroft’s gut. Mycroft falls back against the stairs, completely winded. Sherlock turns and grabs John’s hand, pulling him up to standing.

“Come on, John!”

They run hand in hand into the dining room around the bend, splashing past floating plate setting and electric lights spitting out sparks. They run until they reach the end of the water. Through a back door past cabinets full of china, they head down a stairwell into a crew hallway.

“We have to get back up another way,” Sherlock says. “Mycroft is normally sensible, doesn’t dirty his hands, but clearly this is not a normal situation.”

“Oh!” John shrugs and heaves his arms up just to drop them down again. “I hadn’t noticed at all, Sherlock!”

Sherlock runs a hand through John’s wet hair and kisses him. “It’s all right, we are getting off this boat.”

“That will happen one way or another.”

“John, come on,” Sherlock puts his hands on either side of John’s head. “Focus on me, all right? We are getting off this boat.”

John stares at Sherlock and puts his hands over Sherlock’s. He breathes sharply twice through his mouth and nods emphatically. “We’re getting off the boat.”

“Come on.”

The two of them head to the left down the hall, only trickles of water and discarded luggage on the floor. Then they hear a loud creaking noise. Turning back to the far doors, almost a dozen streams of water spray from the cracks in the wood.

“Run!” John shouts.

Then the wood gives way and a rush of water floods into the hall. John shoves Sherlock in the back and they run full speed down the hall, skidding down a side passage.

“Hurry!” John shouts again.

The water hits them hard, a smack of ice that nearly makes Sherlock forgets how to think. His legs crumple and they slide on to their backs with the flood. The lights wink off and on and Sherlock tries to grab John’s hand but he can hardly see with the speed. 

“John!”

Suddenly he slams into a locked gate, John landing behind him. The water rushes around them through the cracks, broken chairs hitting them and small bits sailing through.

“Right there,” John shouts, pulling Sherlock by his jacket toward a stairwell only two meters away. “Come on, we can get up!”

They swim against the current, holding onto juts in the wall until John grabs the hand hold in the stairwell and heaves himself up.

“Come on!” John holds out his hand and grabs Sherlock’s, pulling Sherlock through the water.

They climb up the stairs one flight and hit another locked gate. Sherlock pulls at the bars trying to force them apart. John kicks the edges trying to dislodge the fixtures on the wall.

“No, no!” John shouts. “Not like this! Hello? Anyone!”

Suddenly a man in a white waiters jacket runs by heading for the stairs in front of them

“Wait! Wait!” Sherlock and John shout.

“Please,” John says, “unlock the gate!”

“I’m sorry!” The man says climbing up the stairs.

“The keys!” Sherlock shouts. “Do you have the keys? Leave us the keys!”

The man stops, reaches into his jacket, pulling out a set of keys on a chain and throws it at them. The keys clang as they hit the gate and sail through, down the stairs and into the rising water.

“No!” John jumps down the steps and into the water.

“John!”

John disappears below the water’s surface still rising faster and faster. Nothing happens for a long minute as the lights dim making it even harder to see.

“John!” Sherlock shouts again.

John’s head bursts above the water. “I couldn't... I couldn’t see...”

Sherlock shoves John back and dives below the water. He tries to keep his eyes open, hand groping over the stairs, but the speed of the water stings too much. Sherlock holds onto the hand rail and gropes further down, his lungs burning. Then he feels metal, small keys and a chain. Sherlock jumps up from the water.

“Here!” Sherlock holds up the keys which John grabs right away.

“Which one? I don’t know which –”

“The single notch, the second one there, go!”

John maneuvers his arm through the bar and under the water to the lock. Sherlock stands up again, the water up to their chests. John grimaces, struggling with lock.

“It’s the right one!”

“It’s not moving!”

“Force it, John, please!”

Then the gate makes a cracking noise and John pulls his arm free. He shoves the doors of the gate apart as the water reaches their necks and they both spill through with the flowing water into the hall. They swim hard up and into the next stairwell, grabbing the walls to pull them higher and finally out of the water.

~~~

_As the last standard boat prepares to launch, Mycroft picks his way through the crowd, umbrella again at his side._

_“This boat is full!” Lt. Donovan shouts. “Lower away!”_

_“Wait.” Anthea stands from her spot on the boat. “I’m getting off.”_

_“I...” Donovan stares at her. “Ma’am?”_

_Mycroft steps up beside the boat and offers a hand to Anthea. Anthea takes his hand and steps out then holds on to conversely assist Mycroft into the boat. Lt. Donovan stares in shock. Mycroft sits down and nods to Anthea as she steps backward._

_“Say hello to America for me, sir.”_

_As the lifeboat descends, Anthea leans back against the wall, lights a cigarette and watches the water rise._

~~~

_The crowds grow larger and more panicked as the boats dwindle down to collapsible boats A and B as well as the two cutters._

_“Stay back or I will shoot!” Lt. Anderson shouts with a gun in his hand. “We must prepare the boat, stay back!”_

_With all the pushing, a man abruptly lands on Michael Stamford’s back and he stumbles forward. Anderson shoots without thinking, hitting Michael right in the chest. He collapses with a gasp, eyes rolling back in his head. The crowd falls silent, staring with surprise and fear._

_Lt. Anderson looks at the gun in his hand for a long moment then stands up straight and salutes his fellow shipmates._

_“Anderson, no!”_

_He shoots himself in the head and falls into the sea._

~~~

_On the bridge, Captain Lestrade holds tightly to the wheel of his ship. The doors to his left and right locked, he stands still and watches the sea come up to meet him._

_“Take me home,” Lestrade says quietly._

~~~

Sherlock and John twist up and up the white crew stairs, higher and higher away from the rising water. Sherlock holds onto John’s hand, more to ensure John still runs behind him than anything else. They finally reach A deck and run through the dining area. They pass into the men’s smoking lounge where they stop short. Ms. Adler stands alone in front of the fireplace staring up at the painting above the mantel.

“Ms. Adler,” Sherlock says quietly.

She turns and looks at them both. She smiles softly. “Ah, Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson.”

John blinks, “Ma’am, you...” He turns to Sherlock. “She knows my name?”

She laughs. “Oh, dear, Ms. Hooper and I talked a bit about you two while you were breaking into my suite.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows with appreciation then steps forward. “Are you not going for a boat? There may be one or two left.”

She only shakes her head and turns back to the painting. “I’m sure you can imagine some metaphor about a mother and child, can’t you?” She glances back again. Her eyes run up and down them once and she smiles. “I will say, despite your sodden appearances, you two do make a splendid couple.”

John’s voice squawks in a strangled sort of way – completely unintelligible as words – but Sherlock only smiles. “Good bye, Irene.”

“Good bye, Sherlock, and good luck to you both.”

\--------

Out on deck people surround them, running, screaming, jumping into the much closer water. The bow of the ship sinks faster as more of the front fills with water. The angle of the ship grows steeper and everyone starts to run up toward the rear of the ship.

“We have to go up!” John says, pointing. “Stay on as long as possible.”

“No!” Sherlock grabs John by the shoulders. “We jump now.”

“What?”

“There.” Sherlock points toward the sunken bow. “Do you see?”

John looks. “I see how fast the ship is sinking now!”

“No, John, really see! The collapsible boats!” Sherlock grips John arms, pulling him back against the hull wall so people can run by. “The one boat there is over turned, rushed away from the ship by the force tugging Titanic under. If we jump now we can swim and maybe make it to that boat.”

“But it’s overturned, how –”

“As long as it still floats, John, look.” They both turn and see the boat drifting away but still afloat with a dozen men grappling to climb aboard. Sherlock turns John back around. “We swim hard and we get on top of that boat. You remember what I said – what we said – hypothermia in this water.”

“If we stay on Titanic longer... there could be.. there has to be a rescue ship!”

“No, John, even if we could see lights on the horizon now it would still be an hour until they reached us and we could be dead from the cold by then. We need to be out of the water longer than it will take this boat to sink now.”

“Sherlock...”

“Please, John.” Despite the running people, despite anyone who could see, Sherlock pulls John close and kisses him. “Please, John, it is our best option. We jump and swim for the boat.”

“Okay.”

John grips Sherlock’s hand and pulls them both away from the wall. They run over to the edge, step up then jump down into the water only a meter below them now. When they hit the water their hands snap apart like they slapped down on ice. Sherlock almost breathes in with the shock of the water. If the water on the ship was cold, somehow the entire ocean tops it and feels like being enclosed in ice. Sherlock simply sinks down for a moment thinking how easy it would be to keep going down. Then he kicks and kicks and he pushes with his arms, head breaking the surface.

“...lock!”

Sherlock shakes his head, focuses on the sound.

“Sherlock!” John’s hand clamps around his arm and pulls “Come on, we can’t swim in this cold long without life vests.”

Sherlock springs to life and starts to swim alongside John. They turn and kick away from the ship, other people still trying to hold onto exposed rigging posts or hanging ropes. They swim toward the white beacon of the collapsible boat they make out in the distance, not yet swallowed up by the darkness of the night. As they get closer they see a number of people around the boat trying to climb on top the precarious craft.

“Careful!” A woman’s voice cries and as they get closer, Sherlock sees Second Officer Lt. Donovan on top of the boat. “Careful, grab his hand, come on.”

They reach the edge of the boat, five others clinging on to the sides. 

John grasps the side of the boat and calls up. “Can you keep it afloat? What should we do?”

“Don’t capsize us, that’s what.” She looks down at them – no life vests, sure to drown otherwise, instinct of the sailor, protect the passengers – she holds out her hand. “Come on, grab my hand. Balance that end!” She shouts over her shoulder.

John grabs her hand as those already on top of the boat shift to the other end to balance the weight. Sherlock pushes John up by his waist and though John slips once he manages to climb on top. John shifts carefully around Donovan then turns to look down at Sherlock.

“Come on, Sherlock, you can make it.”

Donovan reaches down for him, holding tightly to his hand and pulling. Sherlock kicks up with his feet and plants a hand on the nose of the life boat, tipping the boat down slightly in the water. However, John pulls at the back of Donovan’s coat and they haul Sherlock up together, the lifeboat still remaining afloat though upside down.

Sherlock scoots around Donovan and kneels beside John. He looks around on the boat – he recognizes a man in a torn tuxedo, Archibald Gracie, as well as a number of crew members who must have been trying to free the boat when the ocean swept it away and a man who he believes is one of the telegraph operators. They try to help more people from the water up on to the top, John on one side and Sherlock on the other.

“Wait, look!” Archibald cries as suddenly one of the large smoke stacks from the ship snaps its lines and crashes down into the ocean.

The wave hits the boat and pushes then along, sweeping them further away from the ship.

“Hold on!” Sherlock cries. “Keep the balance.”

They all cling to the hull, spreading out as best they can to stop the boat from over turning or losing any of the air underneath.

“Keep it moving!” Donovan says to the men around them still in the water. “We need to be away or the suction will take us down too when she goes!”

The men in the water kick and push while those on top do what little they can, paddling with their hands. Titanic starts to sink faster and faster, the angle growing steeper. Sherlock sits up and watches the ship. Every five seconds he sees a body fall from the ship into the water like leaves from a tree. A strange thought strikes Sherlock that this could make a good story for John to write.

Suddenly behind them all the lights on the ship go out and a great cry fills the night. They pause and watch as slowly the ship makes a last sort of deciding dip. A crack like a hole tearing in the earth rings out through the night and the ship breaks at the water line – wood tearing, sparks seen even from afar, and water gushes into the gap.

“Oh my god...” John gasps and tightly grips Sherlock's hand in his.

“Are you glad now I told you to jump?” Sherlock asks quietly.

The aft half of the ship falls back down into the water, smacking and heaving out waves, crushing people in the water. Then it rises up again slowly until it bobs like a cork. Steadily it sinks, down and down until the very last edge of the ship sucks beneath the water.

Beside Sherlock, Donovan grabs his hand and he hears her cursing under her breath. Sherlock stares at her but does not tell her to let go. On the other side of their capsized boat a man starts to pray.

And then the screams. The entire night fills with screams and screams and screams – ‘help us,’ ‘please,’ ‘oh god,’ ‘help us’ – screams. Though Sherlock rarely finds himself moved by the plights of his fellow man, he cannot help but notice a great hole of horror in his chest.

“Oh my god...” one of the men next to John moans.

John turns to Sherlock. “What do we do? What do we do?”

“Nothing,” Donovan says quietly and lets go of Sherlock’s hand.

“We can’t help them,” Sherlock finishes.

They float on the water as the screams slowly fade over the minutes then hours. John stays tight at Sherlock's side, legs touching and somehow just the slightest bit warm though every man on the boat shivers and shakes. Some start to slip off the hull, unable to keep themselves upright from fatigue, and sink below the water.

“Don’t... Don’t let go of my h... my hand,” Sherlock whispers, “we’ve come this far.”

“You’re the one who was so... so eager... oh god... to get into the water.”

Sherlock laughs and his teeth chatter. “You can say ‘I told you so later.’”

“Oh,” John chuckles breathlessly, “oh I will, you... you can bet on that.”

“And no falling asleep.” Sherlock peers down the boat, less men on board and the edge of the hull much closer to the water line. “I expect your full attention.”

“You have it,” John whispers and Sherlock knows John wants to kiss him, even here.

Sherlock smiles and squeezes John’s hand. “I told you, we... we’re not going to die.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, John.”

The night wears on as they wait. The air under their small life boat lessens until they all must stand up to keep the boat a float, ankles under water. Donovan orders them into two straight lines, swaying with the waves to keep air underneath as long as they can. John holds on to Sherlock’s arm across the middle, somehow the steadier one, as Lt. Donovan cries encouragement to keep them all awake. By the time two of the other life boats row closer to take them on – Officer Donovan blowing her whistle like a bell tower – the water hits John at the knee and just fourteen of them remain balancing the boat.

At 4 AM the Carpathia arrives to save the survivors from the freezing air – twenty desolate boats among a maze of ice. Sherlock and John are barely able to climb on board the ship without assistance, wool blankets quickly wrapped over their shoulders. 

Sherlock and John sit side by side on deck, cups of soup in their hands though neither eats. John leans slightly against Sherlock and turns toward him.

“What do we do now?”

Sherlock tilts his head. “America? Back to London? It’s... up to us.”

John laughs. “And together.”

Sherlock knows it was already implied but John saying it out loud makes Sherlock’s shoulders ease and he wants to hold John close. “Oh, yes...”

“I’m very glad I met you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock smiles wide. “And I you.”

“I will say, you certainly know how to show a man good time.” John grins. “After he saves your life, that is.”

Sherlock chuckles. “Well, I saved yours a few times after that.”

“I wasn’t keeping count.”

“Do you want to know exactly how many –”

“No.” Sherlock frowns until John squeezes his hand. “I am just happy we’re both alive.”

“As am I.”

Sherlock looks down at John’s lips – remembers kisses, imagines more – sees a world ahead of them open and waiting with any path he wants to take and he knows absolutely, John will be there right beside him.

“And I am so very happy you are with me, John Watson.”

**Author's Note:**

> Here are all the links I used for my movie information, as well as the historically accurate portions - collapsible boat B - and everything else. Feel free to learn more.
> 
> Citations: 
> 
> [Titanic (1997) on Wikipidia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Titanic_\(1997_film\))  
> [Synopsis of Titanic Film](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0120338/synopsis)  
>    
> [Deck Plans](http://www.balmoralsoftware.com/titanic/titanic.htm)  
> [Collapsible boat B](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sinking_of_the_RMS_Titanic#Passengers_and_crew_in_the_water_.2802:20.E2.80.9304:10.29)  
> [Archibald Gracie](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archibald_Gracie_IV), more about Collapsible boat B  
> [Passengers of Titanic](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Passengers_of_the_RMS_Titanic)  
> [Titanic website](http://www.encyclopedia-titanica.org/)  
> [Lifeboats](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lifeboats_of_the_RMS_Titanic#Collapsible_Boat_B_.28port.29)
> 
> Rachmaninoff piece: [Vocalise](http://youtu.be/19J8dO3T1S8)


End file.
